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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


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William   Makepeace   Thackeray 


1    --N 


ARTHUR  MEETS  WITH  AN  OLD  ACQUAINTANCE 

Front  is,  Thackeray — Pentitnnis,  I 


COMPLETE    WORKS    OF 

WILLIAM     MAKEPEACE 
THACKERAY 

IN      TWENTY      VOLUMES 


THE    HISTORY 
PENDENNIS 


OF 


VOLUME     ONE 


WITH   DRAWINGS  BY  RICHARD  DOYLE,  FREDERICK 

WALKER,    CHARLES    GREEN,   GEORGE    DU 

MAURIER,    R.    A.    WALLACE,    AND 

W.    M.   THACKERAY 


NEW  YORK 
P.    F.    COLLIER    &    SON 

M  C  M  I   I 

^z  ^.'  n  ^x  *> 


\? 


TO   DR.   JOHN   ELLIOTSON. 


Mr  DEAR  Doctor, 

Thirteen  months  ago,  when  it  seemed  likely  that  this  stoPy 
had  come  to  a  close,  a  kind  friend  brought  you  to  my  bedside, 
whence,  in  all  probabilitj',  I  never  should  have  risen  but  for 
30ur  constant  watchfulness  and  skill.  I  like  to  recall  your 
great  goodness  and  kindness  (as  well  as  many  acts  of  others, 
showing  quite  a  surprising  friendship  and  sj-mpathj")  at  that 
time,  when  kindness  and  friendship  were  most  needed  and 
welcome. 

And  as  you  would  take  no  other  fee  but  thanks,  let  me 
record  them  here  in  behalf  of  me  and  mine,  and  subscribe 
myself, 

Yours  most  sincerely  and  gratefully, 

W.  M.  THACKEKAT 


i^ONTENTS   OF   VOLUME   I. 


Chaptbr  Page 

I.  Sl»-3ws  how  First  Love  may  interrnpt  Breakfast  ...  1 

II.  A  Pedigree  and  other  Family  Matters   ......  5 

III.  In  which  Pendennis  appears   as   a  very  young   Man 

indeed 21 

IV.  Mrs.  Haller 34 

V.     Mrs.  Haller  at  Home 42 

VI.     Contains  both  Love  and  War 55 

VII.  In  which  the  Major  makes  his  Appearance      ....  (57 

VHL  In  which  Pen  is  kept  waiting  at  the  Door,  while  the 

Reader  is  informed  who  Little  Laura  was    ....  75 

IX.     In  which  the  Major  opens  the  Campaign 87 

X.     Facing  the  Enemy 94 

XI.     Negotiation 100 

Xn.  In  which  a  Shooting  Match  is  proposed       .....  109 

XIII.  A  Crisis 117 

XIV.  In  which  Miss  Fotheringay  makes  a  New  Engagement  125 
XV.     The  Happy  Village = 133 

XVI.  "VMiich  concludes  the  First  Part  of  this  History  ...  143 

XVII.     Alma  Mater 160 

XVIII.     Pendennis  of  Boniface 169 

XIX.     Rake's  Progress 183 

XX.     Flight  after  Defeat 191 

XXI.     Prodigal's  Return 198 

XXII.     New  Faces 207 

XXni.     A  Little  Innocent .224 

XXIV.     Contains  both  Love  and  Jealousy 234 


CONTENTS. 

Chapter  Pagb 

XXV.     A  House  full  of  Visitors 243 

XXVI.     Contains  some  Ball-practising 257 

XXVII.  Which  is  both  Quarrelsome  and  Sentimental     .     .  266 

XXVIII.     Babylon 280 

XXIX.     The  Knights  of  the  Temple 292 

XXX.     Old  and  New  Acquaintances 301 

XXXI.  In  which  the  Printer's  Devil  comes  to  the  Door      .  313 

XXXII.  Which  is  passed  in  the  Neighborhood  of  Ludgate 

Hill 326 

XXXni.  In  which  the  History  still  hovers  about  Fleet  Street  336 

XXXIV.     A  Dinner  in  the  Row 342 

XXXV.     The  "Pall  Mall  Gazette" 353 

XXXVI.  Where  Pen  appears  in  Town  and  Country     .     .     .  359 

XXXVII.     In  which  the  Sylph  reappears 374 

XXXVni.  In  which  Colonel  Altamont  appears  and  disappears    382 


PREFACE. 


If  this  kind  of  composition,  of  which  the  two  years'  product 
is  now  laid  before  the  public,  fail  in  art,  as  it  constantly  does 
and  must,  it  at  least  has  the  advantage  of  a  certain  truth  and 
honest}',  which  a  work  more  elaborate  might  lose.  In  his  con- 
stant communication  with  the  reader,  the  writer  is  forced  into 
frankness  of  expression,  and  to  speak  out  his  own  mind  and 
feelings  as  they  urge  him.  Many  a  slip  of  the  pen  and  the 
printer,  many  a  word  spoken  in  haste,  he  sees  and  would  recall 
as  he  looks  over  his  volume.  It  is  a  sort  of  confidential  talk 
between  writer  and  reader,  which  must  often  be  dull,  must  often 
flag.  In  the  course  of  his  volubilit}',  the  perpetual  speaker 
must  of  necessity'  lay  bare  his  own  weaknesses,  vanities,  pe- 
culiarities. And  as  we  judge  of  a  man's  character,  after  long 
frequenting  his  society,  not  by  one  speech,  or  by  one  mood  or 
opinion,  or  by  one  day's  talk,  but  by  the  tenor  of  his  general 
bearing  and  conversation  ;  so  of  a  writer,  who  delivers  himself 
up  to  you  perforce  unreservedl}',  you  sa}'.  Is  he  honest?  Does 
he  tell  the  truth  in  the  main?  Does  he  seem  actuated  by  a 
desire  to  find  out  and  speak  it?  Is  he  a  quack,  who  shams 
sentiment,  or  mouths  for  eflfect?  Does  he  seek  popularity  by 
claptraps  or  other  arts?  I  can  no  more  ignore  good  fortune 
than  an}"  other  chance  which  has  befallen  me.  I  have  found 
many  thousands  more  readers  than  I  ever  looked  for.  I  have 
no  right  to  say  to  these.  You  shall  not  find  fault  with  my  art, 
or  fall  asleep  over  my  pages  ;  but  I  ask  you  to  believe  that  this 
person  writing  strives  to  tell  the  truth.  If  there  is  not  that, 
there  is  nothing. 


viii  PREFACE, 

Perhaps  the  lovers  of  "  excitement"  ma}'  care  to  know,  that 
this  book  began  with  a  very  precise  plan,  which  was  entirely 
put  aside.  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  you  were  to  have  been 
treated,  and  the  writer's  and  the  pubUsher's  pocket  benefited, 
by  the  recital  of  the  most  active  horrors.  What  more  exciting 
than  a  ruffian  (with  man}'  admirable  virtues)  in  St.  Giles's, 
visited  constantly  by  a  young  lady  from  Belgravia?  What 
more  stirring  than  the  contrasts  of  society?  the  mixture  of 
slang  and  fashionable  language?  the  escapes,  the  battles,  the 
murders?  Nay,  up  to  nine  o'clock  this  very  morning,  my 
poor  friend.  Colonel  Altaraont,  was  doomed  to  execution,  and 
the  author  only  relented  when  his  victim  was  actually  at  the 
window. 

The  ' '  exciting  "  plan  was  laid  aside  (with  a  very  honorable 
forbearance  on  the  part  of  the  publishers),  because,  on  attempt- 
ing it,  I  found  that  I  failed  from  want  of  experience  of  my 
subject ;  and  never  having  been  intimate  with  an}-  convict  in 
my  life,  and  the  manners  of  ruffians  and  gaol-birds  being  quite 
unfamiliar  to  me,  the  idea  of  entering  into  competition  with 
M.  Eugene  Sue  was  abandoned.  To  describe  a  real  rascal, 
you  must  make  him  so  horrible  that  he  would  be  too  hideous  to 
show  ;  and  unless  the  painter  paints  him  fairly,  I  hold  he  has 
no  right  to  show  him  at  all. 

Even  the  gentlemen  of  our  age  —  this  is  an  attempt  to 
describe  one  of  them,  no  better  nor  worse  than  most  educated 
men  —  even  these  we  cannot  show  as  they  are,  with  the  no-i 
torious  foibles  and  selfishness  of  their  lives  and  their  education. 
Since  the  author  of  Tom  Jones  was  buried,  no  writer  of  fiction 
among  us  has  been  permitted  to  depict  to  his  utmost  power  a 
Man.  We  must  drape  him,  and  give  him  a  certain  conven- 
tional simper.  Society  will  not  tolerate  the  Natural  in  our 
Art.  Many  ladies  have  remonstrated  and  subscribers  left  me, 
because  in  the  course  of  the  story,  I  described  a  young  man 
resisting  and  affected  by  temptation.     My  object  was  to  say, 


PREFACE.  ix 

that  he  had  the  passions  to  feel,  and  the  manliness  and  gen- 
erosit}'  to  overcome  them.  You  will  not  hear  —  it  is  best  to 
know  it  —  what  moves  in  the  real  world,  what  passes  in  society, 
in  the  clubs,  colleges,  mess-rooms,  —  what  is  the  life  and  talk 
of  j'our  sous.  A  little  more  frankness  than  is  customary  has 
been  attempted  in  this  story  ;  with  no  bad  desire  on  the  writer's 
part,  it  is  hoped,  and  with  no  ill  consequence  to  any  reader. 
If  truth  is  not  always  pleasant ;  at  any  rate  truth  is  best,  from 
whatever  chair  —  from  those  whence  graver  writers  or  thinkers 
argue,  as  from  that  at  which  the  story-teller  sits  as  he  concludee 
his  labor,  and  bids  his  kind  reader  farewell. 

Kbnsinoton,  Not.  26,  1860. 


PENDENNIS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

SHOWS   HOW   FIRST    LOVE    MAY   INTERRUPT    BREAKFAST. 

One  fine  morning  in  the  full  London  season,  Major  Arthur 
Pendennis  came  over  from  his  lodgings,  according  to  his  cus- 
tom, to  breakfast  at  a  certain  Club  in  Pall  Mall,  of  which  he 
was  a  chief  ornament.  At  a  quarter  past  ten  the  Major  inva- 
riably made  his  appearance  in  the  best  blacked  Ijoots  in  all 
London,  with  a  checked  morning  cravat  that  never  was  rumpled 
until  dinner  time,  a  buff  waistcoat  which  bore  the  crown  of  his 
sovereign  on  the  buttons,  and  linen  so  spotless  that  Mr.  Brum- 
mel  himself  asked  the  name  of  his  laundress,  and  would  proba- 
bly have  employed  her  had  not  misfortunes  compelled  that 
great  man  to  tly  the  country.  Pendennis's  coat,  his  white 
gloves,  his  whiskers,  his  very  cane,  were  perfect  of  their  kind 
as  specimens  of  the  costume  of  a  militar}'  man  en  retraite.  At 
a  distance,  or  seeing  his  back  merel}',  ^'ou  would  have  taken 
him  to  be  not  more  than  thirty  3'ears  old  :  it  was  only  by  a 
nearer  inspection  that  you  saw  the  factitious  nature  of  his  rich 
brown  hair,  and  that  there  were  a  few  crows-feet  round  about 
the  somewhat  faded  eyes  of  his  handsome  mottled  face.  His 
nose  was  of  the  AVellington  pattern.  His  hands  and  wristbands 
were  beautifull}'  long  and  white.  On  the  latter  he  wore  hand- 
some gold  buttons  given  to  him  by  his  Royal  Highness  the 
Duke  of  York,  and  on  the  others  more  than  one  elegant  ring, 
the  chief  and  largest  of  them  being  emblazoned  with  the  famous 
arms  of  Pendennis. 

He  always  took  possession  of  the  same  table  in  the  same 
corner  of  the  room,  from  whicli  nobody  ever  now  thought  of 
ousting  him.     One  or  two  mad  wags  and  wild  fellows  had,  in 

1 


2  PENDENNTS. 

former  days,  endeavored  to  deprive  him  of  this  place  ;  but  there 
was  a  quiet  diguit}'  in  the  Major's  manner  as  he  took  his  seat 
at  the  next  table,  and  surveyed  the  interlopers,  which  rendered 
it  impossible  for  any  man  to  sit  and  breakfast  under  his  e^-e ; 
and  that  table  —  b}'  the  fire,  and  yet  near  the  window  —  became 
his  own.  His  letters  were  laid  out  there  in  expectation  of  his 
arrival,  and  many  was  the  young  fellow  about  town  who  looked 
with  wonder  at  the  number  of  those  notes,  and  at  the  seals  and 
franks  which  they  bore.  If  there  was  any  question  about  eti- 
quette, society,  who  was  married  to  whom,  of  what  age  such 
and  such  a  duke  was,  Pendennis  was  the  man  to  whom  ever}' 
one  appealed.  Marchionesses  used  to  drive  up  to  the  Club,  and 
leave  notes  for  him,  or  fetch  him  out.  He  was  perfectly  affable. 
The  .young  men  liked  to  walk  with  him  in  the  Park  or  down 
Pall  Mall ;  for  he  touched  his  hat  to  everybody,  and  every  other 
man  he  met  was  a  lord. 

The  Major  sat  down  at  his  accustomed  table  then,  and  while 
the  waiters  went  to  bring  him  his  toast  and  his  hot  newspaper, 
he  surve3'ed  his  letters  through  his  gold  double  eye-glass,  and 
examined  one  pretty  note  after  another,  and  laid  them  b}^  in 
order.  There  were  large  solemn  dinner  cards,  suggestive  of 
three  courses  and  heavy  conversation ;  there  were  neat  little 
confidential  notes,  convening  female  entreaties  ;  there  was  a 
note  on  thick  official  paper  from  the  Marquis  of  Ste^-ne,  teUing 
him  to  come  to  Richmond  to  a  little  party  at  the  Star  and 
Garter  ;  and  another  from  the  Bishop  of  Ealing  and  Mrs.  Trail, 
requesting  the  honor  of  Major  Pendennis's  companj^  at  Ealing 
House,  all  of  which  letters  Pendennis  read  gracefully,  and  with 
the  more  satisfaction,  because  Glowr}',  the  Scotch  surgeon, 
breakfasting  opposite  to  him,  was  looking  on,  and  hating  him 
for  having  so  many  invitations,  which  nobody  ever  sent  to 
Glowry. 

These  perused,  the  Major  took  out  his  pocket-book  to  see 
on  what  days  he  was  disengaged,  and  which  of  these  many 
hospitable  calls  he  could  afford  to  accept  or  decline. 

He  threw  over  Cutler,  the  East  India  Director,  in  Baker 
Street,  in  order  to  dine  with  Lord  Steyne  and  the  little  French 
party  at  the  Star  and  Garter  —  the  Bishop  he  accepted,  because, 
though  the  dinner  was  slow,  he  liked  to  dine  with  bishops  — 
and  so  went  through  his  list  and  disposed  of  them  according  to 
his  fanc}'  or  interest.  Then  he  took  his  breakfast  and  looked 
over  the  paper,  the  gazette,  the  births  and  deaths,  and  the 
fashionable  intelligence,  to  see  that  his  name  was  down  among 
the  guests  at  my  Lord  So-aud-so's  fete,  and  in  the  intervals  of 


PENDENNIS.  3 

these  ©ceupations  carried  on  cheerful   conversation  with   his 
acquaintances  about  the  room. 

Among  the  letters  which  formed  Major  Pendennis's  budget 
for  that  morning  there  was  only  one  unread,  and  which  lay 
solitar}'^  and  apart  from  all  the  fashionable  London  letters,  with 
a  country  postmark  and  a  homely  seal.  The  superscription 
was  in  a  pretty  delicate  female  hand,  marked  "  immediate"  by 
the  fau"  writer ;  yet  the  Major  had,  for  reasons  of  his  own, 
neglected  up  to  the  present  moment  his  humble  rural  petitioner, 
who  to  be  sure  could  hardly  hope  to  get  a  hearing  among  so 
man}'  grand  folks  who  attended  his  levee.  The  fact  was,  this 
was  a  letter  from  a  female  relative  of  Pendennis,  and  while  the 
grandees  of  her  brother's  acquaintance  were  received  and  got 
their  interv'iew,  and  drove  off,  as  it  were,  the  patient  countrj' 
letter  remained  for  a  long  time  waiting  for  an  audience  in  the 
ante-chamber,  under  the  slop-basin. 

At  last  it  came  to  be  this  letter's  turn,  and  the  Major  broke 
a  seal  with  "  Fairoaks"  engraved  upon  it,  and  "  Clavering  St. 
Mary's"  for  a  post-mark.  It  was  a  double  letter,  and  the 
Major  commenced  perusing  the  envelope  before  he  attacked  the 
inner  epistle. 

'•Is  it  a  letter  from  another  Jook"  growled  Mr.  Glowry, 
inwardly.  "Pendennis  would  not  be  leaving  that  to  the  last, 
I'm  thinking." 

"  M}'  dear  Major  Pendennis,"  the  letter  ran,  "I  beg  and 
implore  you  to  come  to  me  immediately  "  —  very  likety,  thought 
Pendennis,  and  Steyne's  dinner  to-day  —  "I  am  in  the  gi-eat- 
est  grief  and  perplexity.  My  dearest  boy,  who  has  been 
hitherto  everything  the  fondest  mother  could  wish,  is  grieving 
me  dreadfully.  He  has  formed  —  I  can  hardly  write  it  —  a  pas- 
sion, an  infatuation,"  —  the  Major  grinned  —  "for  an  actress 
who  has  been  performing  here.  She  is  at  least  twelve  3-ears 
older  than  Arthur  —  who  will  not  be  eighteen  till  next  February 
—  and  the  wretched  boy  insists  upon  marrying  her."  ^ 

"Hay!  What's  making  Pendennis  swear  now?"  —  Mr. 
Glowry  asked  of  himself,  for  rage  and  wonder  were  concen- 
trated in  the  Major's  open  mouth,  as  he  read  this  astounding 
announcement. 

"Do,  my  dear  friend,"  the  gi-ief-stricken  lady  went  on, 
"  come  to  me  instantl}-  on  the  receipt  of  this  ;  and,  as  Arthur's 
guardian,  entreat,  command,  the  wretched  child  to  give  up  this 
most  deplorable  resolution."  And,  after  more  entreaties  to  the 
above  effect,  the  writer  concluded  b}'  signing  herself  the  Major's 
"  unhappy  affectionate  sister,  Helen  Pendennis." 


4  PENDENNIS 

"  Fairoaks,  Tuesday"  —  the  Major  concluded,  reading  the 
last  words  of  the  letter  —  "Ad — d  pretty  business  at  Fair- 
oaks,  Tuesday  ;  now  let  us  see  what  the  boy  has  to  say  ;  "  and 
he  took  the  other  letter,  which  was  written  in  a  great  flounder- 
ing boy's  hand,  and  sealed  with  the  large  signet  of  the  Penden- 
uises,  even  larger  than  the  Major's  own,  and  with  supplementary 
wax  sputtered  all  round  the  seal,  in  token  of  the  writer's  tremu- 
lousness  and  agitation. 

The  epistle  ran  thus  — 

"  Fairoaks,  Monday,  Midnight. 

"  My  dear  Uncle,  —  In  informing  you  of  my  engagement  with  Miss 
Costigan,  daughter  of  J.  Cliesterfield  Costigan,  Esq.,  of  Costiganstown,  but, 
perhaps,  better  Isnown  to  you  under  her  professional  name  of  Miss  Fother- 
ingay,  of  the  Theatres  Royal  Drury  Lane  and  Crow  Street,  and  of  the  Nor- 
wich and  Welsh  Circuit,  I  am  aware  that  I  make  an  announcement  which 
cannot,  according  to  the  present  prejudices  of  society  at  least,  be  welcome 
to  my  family.  My  dearest  mother,  on  whom,  God  knows,  I  would  wish  to 
inflict  no  needless  pain,  is  deeply  moved  and  grieved,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  bj-- 
the  intelUgence  wliich  I  have  this  night  conveyed  to  her.  I  beseech  you, 
my  dear  Sir,  to  come  down  and  reason  with  her  and  console  her.  Although 
obliged  by  poverty  to  earn  an  honorable  maintenance  by  the  exercise  of 
her  splendid  talents,  Miss  Costigan's  family  is  as  ancient  and  noble  as  our 
own.  When  our  ancestor,  Ralph  Pendennis,  landed  with  Richard  II.  in 
Ireland,  my  Emily's  forefathers  were  kings  of  that  country.  I  have  the 
information  from  Mr.  Costigan,  who,  like  yourself,  is  a  military  man. 

"  It  is  in  vain  I  have  attempted  to  argue  with  my  dear  mother,  and 
prove  to  her  that  a  yoimg  lady  of  irreproachable  character  and  lineage, 
endowed  with  the  most  splendid  gifts  of  beauty  and  genius,  who  devotes 
herself  to  the  exercise  of  one  of  the  noblest  professions,  for  the  sacred  pur- 
pose of  maintaining  her  family,  is  a  being  whom  we  should  all  love  and 
reverence,  rather  than  avoid;  —  my  poor  mother  has  prejudices  which  it  is 
impossible  for  my  logic  to  overcome,  and  refuses  to  welcome  to  her  arms 
one  who  is  disposed  to  be  her  most  affectionate  daughter  through  life. 

"  Although  Miss  Costigan  is  some  years  older  than  myself,  that  circum- 
stance does  not  operate  as  a  barrier  to  my  affection,  and  I  am  sure  will  not 
influence  its  duration.  A  love  like  mine.  Sir,  I  feel,  is  contracted  once  and 
forever.  As  I  never  had  dreamed  of  love  until  I  saw  her  —  I  feel  now 
that  I  shall  die  without  ever  knowing  another  passion.  It  is  the  fate  of  my 
life  ;  and  having  loved  once,  I  should  despise  myself,  and  be  unworthy  of 
my  name  as  a  gentleman,  if  I  hesitated  to  abide  by  my  passion :  if  I  did 
not  give  all  where  I  felt  all,  and  endow  the  woman  who  loves  me  fondly 
with  my  whole  heart  and  my  whole  fortune. 

"  I  press  for  a  speedy  marriage  with  my  Emily  —  for  why,  in  truth, 
should  it  be  delayed  ?  A  delay  implies  a  doubt,  which  I  cast  from  me  as 
unworthy.  It  is  impossible  that  my  sentiments  can  change  towards  Emily 
—  that  at  any  age  she  earn  be  anything  but  the  sole  object  of  my  lov^. 
Why,  then,  wait  ?  I  entreat  you,  my  dear  Uncle,  to  come  down  and  recon- 
cile my  dear  mother  to  our  union,  and  I  address  you  as  a  man  of  the 
world,  qui  mores  hominurn  multarum  vidil  et  urbes,  who  will  not  feel  anj'  of 
the  weak  scruples  and  fears  which  agitate  a  lady  who  has  scarcely  •»« 
Jeft  her  Tillage. 


PENDENNIS.  5 

"  Pray,  come  down  to  us  immediately.  I  am  quite  confident  that  -» 
apart  from  considerations  of  fortune  —  you  will  admire  and  approve  of  mj 
Emily. 

"  Your  affectionate  Nephew, 

"Arthur  Pendennis,  Jr." 

AVhen  the  Major  had  concluded  the  perusal  of  this  letter, 
his  countenance  assumed  an  expression  of  such  rage  and  horroi 
that  Glowr}-,  the  surgeon,  felt  in  his  pocket  for  his  lancet,  which 
he  always  carried  in  his  card-case,  and  thought  his  respected 
friend  was  going  into  a  fit.  The  intelligence  was  indeed  suffi- 
cient to  agitate  Pendennis.  The  head  of  the  Pendennises  going 
to  marry  an  actress  ten  years  his  senior,  —  the  head-strong 
bo}'  about  to  plunge  into  matrimony.  "  The  motlier  has  spoiled 
the  3'oung  rascal,"  groaned  the  Major  inwardly,  "  with  her 
cursed  sentimentality  and  romantic  rubbish.  My  nephew  marry 
a  tragedy  queen  !  Gracious  mercy,  people  will  laugh  at  me  so 
that  I  shall  not  dare  sliow  ni}'  head !  "  And  he  thought  with 
an  inexpressible  pang  that  he  must  give  up  Lord  Steyne's  dinner 
at  Richmond,  and  must  lose  his  rest  and  pass  the  night  in  an 
abominable  tight  mail-coach,  instead  of  taking  pleasure,  as  he 
had  promised  himself,  in  some  of  the  most  agreeable  and  select 
societ}'  in  England. 

He  quitted  his  breakfast-table  for  the  adjoining  writing- 
room,  and  there  ruefully  wrote  off  refusals  to  the  Marquis,  the 
Earl,  the  Bishop,  and  all  his  entertainers  ;  and  he  ordered  his 
servant  to  take  places  in  the  mail-coach  for  that  evening,  of 
course  charging  the  sum  which  he  disbursed  for  the  seats  to  the 
account  of  the  widow  and  the  3'Oung  scapegrace  of  wkom  he 
was  guardian. 


CHAPTER  II. 

A   PEDIGREE   AND   OTHER   FAMILY   MATTERS. 

Early  in  the  Regency  of  George  the  Magnificent,  there  lived 
in  a  small  town  in  the  west  of  England,  called  Clavering,  a 
gentleman  whose  name  was  Pendennis.  There  were  those  alive 
who  remembered  having  seen  his  name  painted  on  a  board, 
which  was  surmounted  b}'  a  gilt  pestle  and  mortar  over  the 
dof)r  of  a  very  humble  little  shop  in  the  city  of  Bath,  where  Mr, 
Pendennis  exercised  the  profession  of  apothecary  and  surgeon  ; 
and  where  he  not  only  attended  gentlemen  in  their  sick-rooias, 


6  PENDENNIS.    ' 

and  ladies  at  the  most  interesting  periods  of  their  lives,  but 
would  condescend  to  sell  a  brown-paper  plaster  to  a  farmer's 
wife  across  the  counter,  —  or  to  vend  tooth-brushes,  hair-pow- 
der, and  London  perfumer3\ 

And  3'et  that  little  apothecary  who  sold  a  stra}^  customer  a 
pennyworth  of  salts,  or  a  more  fragrant  cake  of  Windsor  soap, 
was  a  gentleman  of  good  education,  and  of  as  old  a  famil}-  as 
any  in  the  whole  county  of  Somerset.  He  had  a  Cornish  pedi- 
gree which  carried  the  Pendennises  up  to  the  time  of  the  Druids, 
—  and  who  knows  how  much  farther  back?  They  had  inter- 
married with  the  Normans  at  a  very  late  period  of  their  family 
existence,  and  they  were  related  to  all  the  great  families  of 
Wales  and  Brittany.  Pendennis  had  had  a  piece  of  Universit}^ 
education  too,  and  might  have  pursued  that  career  with  honor, 
but  in  his  second  year  at  Oxbridge  his  father  died  insolvent, 
and  poor  Pen  was  obliged  to  betake  himself  to  the  pestle  and 
apron.  He  always  detested  the  trade,  and  it  was  only  neces- 
sity, and  the  offer  of  his  mother's  brother,  a  London  apothecary 
of  low  family,  into  which  Pendennis's  father  had  demeaned  him- 
self by  marrjang,  that  forced  John  Pendennis  into  so  odious  a 
calling. 

He  quickl}'  after  his  apprenticeship  parted  from  the  coarse- 
minded  practitioner  his  relative,  and  set  up  for  himself  at  Bath 
with  his  modest  medical  ensign.  He  had  for  some  time  a  hard 
struggle  with  poverty :  and  it  was  all  he  could  do  to  keep  the 
shop  in  decent  repair,  and  his  bed-ridden  mother  in  comfort  : 
but  Lady  Ribstone  happening  to  be  passing  to  the  Rooms  with 
an  intoxicated  Irish  chairman  who  bumped  her  lad^'ship  up 
against  Pen's  ver^^  doorpost,  and  drove  his  chair-pole  through 
the  handsomest  pink  bottle  in  the  surgeon's  window,  alighted 
screaming  from  her  vehicle,  and  was  accommodated  with  a  chair 
in  Mr.  Pendennis's  shop,  where  she  was  brought  round  with 
cinnamon  and  sal-volatile. 

Mr.  Pendennis's  manners  were  so  uncommon!}'  gentleman- 
like and  soothing,  that  her  ladyship,  the  wife  of  Sir  Pepin 
Ribstone,  of  Codlingbur}',  in  the  county  of  Somerset,  Bart., 
appointed  her  preserver,  as  she  called  him,  apothecary  to  her 
person  and  family,  which  was  very  large.  Master  Ribstone 
coming  home  for  the  Christmas  holida3's  from  Eton,  over-ate 
himself  and  had  a  fever,  in  which  Mr.  Pendennis  treated  him 
with  the  greatest  skill  and  tenderness.  In  a  word,  he  got  the 
good  graces  of  the  Codlingbur}'  famil}-,  and  from  that  day 
began  to  prosper.  The  good  company  of  Bath  patronized  him, 
and  amongst  the  ladies  espe<iially  he  was  beloved  and  admired. 


PENDENNIS.  7 

First  his  humble  little  shop  became  a  smart  one :  then  he  dis- 
carded the  selling  of  tooth-brushes  and  perfumer}' :  then  he 
shut  up  the  shop  altogether,  and  only  had  a  little  surgcrj-  at- 
tended b}-  a  genteel  young  man  :  then  he  had  a  gig  with  a  man 
to  drive  him  ;  and,  before  her  exit  from  this  world,  his  pooi 
old  mother  had  the  happiness  of  seeing  from  her  bedroom  win- 
dow, to  which  her  chair  was  rolled,  her  beloved  John  step  into 
a  close  carriage  of  his  own,  a  one-horse  carriage  it  is  true,  bu(. 
with  the  arms  of  the  family  of  Pendennis  handsomely  emblazoned 
on  the  panels.  "What  would  Arthur  say  now?"  she  asked, 
speaking  of  a  3'ounger  son  of  hers  — ' '  who  never  so  much  as 
once  came  to  see  my  dearest  Johnn}-  through  all  the  time  of 
his  povert}'  and  struggles  !  " 

"  Captain  Pendennis  is  with  his  regiment  in  India,  mother," 
Mr.  Pendennis  remarked,  "  and,  if  you  please,  I  wish  you  would 
not  call  me  Johnny  before  the  j'oung  man  —  before  Mr.  Par- 
kins." 

Presentl}'  the  day  came  when  she  ceased  to  call  her  son  by 
any  title  of  endearment  or  affection  ;  and  his  house  was  very 
lonel}'  without  that  kind  though  querulous  voice.  He  had  his 
night-bell  altered  and  placed  in  the  room  in  which  the  good 
old  lady  had  grumbled  for  man}^  a  long  3'ear,  and  he  slept  in 
the  great  large  bed  there.  He  was  upwards  of  forty  j-ears  old 
when  these  events  befell ;  before  the  war  was  over ;  before 
George  the  Magnificent  came  to  the  throne  ;  before  this  history 
indeed  :  but  what  is  a  gentleman  without  his  pedigree  ?  Pen- 
dennis, by  this  time,  had  his  handsomely  framed  and  glazed, 
and  hanging  up  in  his  drawing-room  between  the  pictures  of 
Codlingbury  House  in  Somersetshire,  and  St.  Boniface's  Col- 
lege, Oxbridge,  where  he  had  passed  the  brief  and  happy  da3's 
of  his  early  manhood.  As  for  the  pedigree  he  had  taken  it  out 
of  a  trunk,  as  Sterne's  officer  called  for  his  sword,  now  that  he 
was  a  gentleman  and  could  show  it. 

About  the  time  of  Mrs.  Pendennis's  demise,  another  of  her 
son's  patients  likewise  died  at  Bath  ;  that  virtuous  old  woman, 
old  Lady  Pont3-pool,  daughter  of  Reginald  twelfth  Earl  of  Bare- 
acres,  and  by  consequence  great-grand-aunt  to  the  present  Earl, 
and  widow  of  John  second  Lord  Pont3^ool,  and  likewise  of  the 
Reverend  Jonas  Wales,  of  the  Ai-mageddon  Chapel,  Clifton. 
For  the  last  five  3'ears  of  her  life  her  lad3'ship  had  been  attended 
b}'  Miss  Helen  Thistlewood,  a  very  distant  relative  of  the  noble 
house  of  Bareacres,  before  mentioned,  and  daughter  of  Lieu- 
tenant R.  Thistlewood,  R.  N.,  killed  at  the  battle  of  Copen- 
hagen.    Under  Lad}'  Pontypool's  roof  Miss  Thistlewood  foumi 


8  PENDENNIS. 

a  shelter :  the  Doctor,  who  paid  his  visits  to  my  Lady  Ponty. 
pool  at  least  twice  a  day,  could  not  but  remark  the  angelical 
sweetness  and  kindness  with  which  the  young  lady  bore  her 
elderly  relative's  ill-temper ;  and  it  was  as  they  were  going  in 
the  fourth  mourning  coach  to  attend  her  lad3'ship's  venerated 
remains  to  Bath  Abbey,  where  the}'  now  repose,  that  he  looked 
at  her  sweet  pale  face  and  resolved  upon  putting  a  certain 
question  to  her,  the  very  nature  of  which  made  his  pulse  beat 
ninety,  at  least. 

He  was  older  than  she  by  more  than  twenty  years,  and  at 
no  time  the  most  ardent  of  men.  Perhaps  he  had  had  a  love 
affair  in  early  life  which  he  had  to  strangle  —  perhaps  all  early 
love  affairs  ought  to  be  strangled  or  drowned,  like  so  many 
blind  kittens :  well,  at  three-and-forty  he  was  a  collected  quiet 
little  gentleman  in  black  stockings  with  a  bald  head,  and  a  few 
daj's  after  the  ceremony  he  called  to  see  her,  and,  as  he  felt 
her  pulse,  he  kept  hold  of  her  hand  in  his,  and  asked  her  where 
she  was  going  to  live  now  that  the  Pontj^pool  family  had  come 
down  upon  the  property,  which  was  being  nailed  into  boxes, 
and  packed  into  hampers,  and  swaddled  up  with  haybands,  and 
buried  in  straw,  and  locked  under  three  keys  in  green-baize 
plate-chests,  and  carted  away  under  the  e3'es  of  poor  Miss 
Helen,  —  he  asked  her  where  she  was  going  to  live  finally. 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  she  said  she  did  not  know 
She  had  a  little  money.     The  old  lad}'  had  left  her  a  thousand 
pounds,  indeed  ;   and  she  would  go  into  a  boarding-house  or 
into  a  school :  in  fine,  she  did  not  know  where. 

Then  Pendennis,  looking  into  her  pale  face,  and  keeping 
hold  of  her  cold  little  hand,  asked  her  if  she  would  come  and 
live  with  him  ?  He  was  old  compared  to  —  to  so  blooming  a 
young  lad}'  as  Miss  Thistlewood  (Pendennis  was  of  the  grave 
old  complimentary  school  of  gentlemen  and  apothecaries),  but 
he  was  of  good  birth,  and,  he  flattered  himself,  of  good  princi- 
ples and  temper.  His  prospects  were  good,  and  daily  mending. 
He  was  alone  in  the  world,  and  had  need  of  a  kind  and  constant 
companion,  whom  it  would  be  the  study  of  his  life  to  make 
happy ;  in  a  word,  he  recited  to  her  a  little  speech,  which  he 
had  composed  that  morning  in  bed,  and  rehearsed  and  per- 
fected in  his  carriage,  as  he  was  coming  to  wait  upon  the  young 
lady. 

Perhaps  if  he  had  had  an  early  love-passage,  she  too  had 
one  day  hoped  for  a  different  lot  than  to  be  wedded  to  a  little 
gentleman  who  rapped  his  teeth  and  smiled  artificially,  who 
was  laboriously  polite  to  the  butler  as  he  slid  up  stairs  into  the 


PENDENNIS.  9 

drawing-room,  and  profusely  civil  to  the  lady's-maid,  who 
(vaited  at  the  bedroom  door ;  for  whom  her  old  patroness  used 
to  ring  as  for  a  servant,  and  who  came  with  even  more  eager- 
ness ;  perhaps  she  would  have  chosen  a  difterent  man  —  but 
she  knew,  on  the  other  hand,  how  worthy  Pendennis  was,  how 
prudent,  how  honorable  ;  how  good  he  had  been  to  his  mother, 
and  constant  in  his  care  of  her ;  and  the  upshot  of  this  inter- 
,view  was,  that  she,  blushing  very  much,  made  Pendennis  an 
extremel3'  low  curtsy,  and  asked  leave  to  —  to  consider  his 
very  kind  proposal. 

They  were  married  in  the  dull  Bath  season,  which  was  the 
height  of  the  season  in  London.  And  Pendennis  having  pre- 
viousl}-,  through  a  professional  friend,  M.R.C.S.,  secured  lodg- 
ings in  Holies  Street,  Cavendish  Square,  took  his  wife  thither 
in  a  chaise  and  pair  ;  conducted  her  to  the  theatres,  the  Pai'ks, 
and  the  Chapel  Royal ;  showed  her  the  folks  going  to  a  Draw- 
ing-room, and,  in  a  word,  gave  her  all  the  pleasures  of  the 
town.  He  likewise  left  cards  upon  Lord  Pontj  pool,  upon  the 
Right  Honorable  the  Earl  of  Bareacres,  and  upon  Sir  Pepin 
and  Lad}'  Ribstone,  his  earliest  and  kindest  patrons.  Bare- 
acres  took  no  notice  of  the  cards.  Pontypool  called,  admired 
Mrs.  Pendennis,  and  said  Lady  Pontypool  would  come  and  see 
her,  which  her  ladyship  did,  per  proxy  of  John  her  footman, 
who  brought  her  card,  and  an  invitation  to  a  concert  five  iveeks 
off.  Pendennis  was  back  in  his  little  one-horse  carriage,  dis- 
pensing draughts  and  pills  at  that  time :  but  the  Ribstones 
asked  him  and  Mrs.  Pendennis  to  an  entertainment,  of  which 
Mr.  Pendennis  talked  to  the  last  day  of  his  life. 

The  secret  ambition  of  Mr.  Pendennis  had  always  been  to 
be  a  gentleman.  It  takes  much  time  and  careful  saving  for  a 
provincial  doctor,  whose  gains  are  not  very  large,  to  la}'  In^ 
enough  money  wherewith  to  purchase  a  house  and  land :  but 
besides  our  friend's  own  frugality  and  prudence,  fortune  aided 
him  considerabl}'  in  his  endeavor,  and  brought  him  to  the  point 
which  he  so  panted  to  attain.  He  laid  out  some  money  very 
advantageously  in  the  purchase  of  a  house  and  small  estate 
close  upon  the  village  of  Clavering  before  mentioned.  A  lucky 
purchase  which  he  had  made  of  shares  in  a  copper-mine  added 
ver}'  considerabl}'  to  his  wealth,  and  he  reaUzed  with  great 
prudence  while  this  mine  was  still  at  its  full  vogue.  Finally, 
he  sold  his  business,  at  Bath,  to  Mr.  Parkins,  for  a  handsome 
sum  of  ready  mone}',  and  for  an  annuit}-  to  be  paid  to  him 
during  a  certain  number  of  years  after  ho  had  for  ever  retired 
from  the  handling  of  the  mortar  and  pestle. 


10  PENDENNIS. 

Arthur  Pendennis,  his  son,  was  eight  years  old  at  the  time 
of  this  event,  so  that  it  is  no  wonder  that  the  lad,  who  left  Bath 
and  the  surge r^^  so  young,  should  forget  the  existence  of  such 
a  place  almost  entirely,  and  that  his  father's  hands  had  ever 
been  dirtied  by  the  compounding  of  odious  pills,  or  the  prepara- 
tion of  filthy  plasters.  The  old  man  never  spoke  about  the 
shop  himself,  never  alluded  to  it ;  called  in  the  medical  practi- 
tioner of  Claveriug  to  attend  his  family  ;  sunk  the  black  breeches 
and  stockings  altogether ;  attended  market  and  sessions,  and 
wore  a  bottle-green  coat  and  brass  buttons  with  drab  gaiters, 
just  as  if  he  had  been  an  English  gentleman  all  his  life.  He 
used  to  stand  at  his  lodge-gate,  and  see  the  coaches  come  in, 
and  bow  gravelj'  to  the  guards  and  coachmen  as  they  touched 
then*  hats  and  drove  by.  It  was  he  who  founded  the  Clavering 
Book  Club :  and  set  up  the  Samaritan  Soup  and  Blanket 
Society.  It  was  he  who  brought  the  mail,  which  used  to  run 
tlu'ough  Cacklefield  before,  away  from  that  village  and  through 
Clavering.  At  church  he  was  equall}'  active  as  a  vestryman 
and  a  worshipper.  At  market  every  Thursday,  he  went  from 
pen  to  stall ;  looked  at  samples  of  oats,  and  munched  corn ; 
felt  beasts,  punched  geese  in  the  breast,  and  weighed  them  with 
a  knowing  air ;  and  did  business  with  the  farmers  at  the 
Clavering  Arms,  as  well  as  the  oldest  frequenter  of  that  house 
of  call.  It  was  now  his  shame,  as  it  formerly  was  his  pride,  to 
be  called  Doctor,  and  those  who  wished  to  please  him  alwa^'S 
gave  him  the  title  of  Squire. 

Heaven  knows  where  they  came  from,  but  a  whole  range  of 
Pendennis  portraits  presentl}^  hung  round  the  Doctor's  oak 
dining-room  ;  Lelys  and  Vandycks  he  vowed  all  the  portraits 
to  be,  and  when  questioned  as  to  the  history  of  the  originals, 
would  vaguely  say  thej' were  "ancestors  of  his."  His  little 
boy  believed  in  them  to  their  fullest  extent,  and  Roger  Penden- 
nis of  Agincourt,  Arthur  Pendennis  of  Cregy,  General  Pen- 
dennis of  Blenheim  and  Oudenarde,  were  as  real  and  actual 
beings  for  this  young  gentleman  as  —  whom  shall  we  say  ?  —  as 
Robinson  Crusoe,  or  Peter  Wilkins,  or  the  Seven  Champions 
of  Christendom,  whose  histories  were  in  his  library. 

Pendennis's  fortune,  which  was  not  above  eight  hundred 
pounds  a  year,  did  not,  with  the  best  economy  and  management, 
permit  of  his  living  with  the  great  folks  of  the  county ;  but  he 
had  a  decent  comfortable  society  of  the  second  sort.  If  they 
were  not  the  roses,  they  lived  near  the  roses,  as  it  were,  and 
had  a  good  deal  of  the  odor  of  genteel  life.  They  had  out  their 
plate,  and  dined  each  other  round  in  the  moonlight  nights  twice 


PENDENNIS.  11 

a  year,  coming  a  dozen  miles  to  these  festivals ;  and  besides 
the  count}',  the  Pendennises  had  the  societ}'  of  the  town  of 
Clavering,  as  much  as,  nay,  more  than  they  liked :  for  Mi-s. 
Pybus  was  always  poking  about  Helen's  conservatories,  and 
intercepting  the  operation  of  her  soup-tickets  and  coal-clubs 
Captain  Glanders  (H.  P.,  50th  Dragoon  Guards),  was  for  evei 
swaggering  about  the  Squire's  stables  and  gardens,  and  endeav- 
oring to  enlist  him  in  his  quarrels  with  the  Vicar,  with  the  Post- 
master, with  the  Reverend  F.  Wapshot  of  Clavering  Grammar 
School,  for  over-flogging  his  son,  Anglesea  Glanders,  —  with 
all  the  village  in  fine.  And  Pendennis  and  his  wife  often  blessed 
themselves,  that  their  house  of  Fairoaks  was  nearl}-  a  mile  out 
of  Clavering,  or  their  premises  would  never  have  been  free  from 
the  pr3-ing  eyes  and  prattle  of  one  or  other  of  the  male  and 
female  inhabitants  there. 

Fairoaks  lawn  comes  down  to  the  little  river  Brawl,  and  on 
the  other  side  were  the  plantations  and  woods  (as  much  as  were 
left  of  them)  of  Clavering  Park,  Sir  Francis  Clavering,  Bart. 
The  park  was  let  out  in  pasture  and  fed  down  by  sheep  and 
cattle  when  the  Pendennises  came  first  to  live  at  Fairoaks. 
Shutters  were  up  in  the  house ;  a  splendid  freestone  palace, 
with  great  stairs,  statues,  and  porticos,  whereof  3'ou  may  see  a 
picture  in  the  "  Beauties  of  England  and  Wales."  Sir  Richard 
Clavering,  Sir  Francis's  grandfather,  had  commenced  the  ruin 
of  the  famil}-  by  the  building  of  this  palace  :  his  successor  had 
achieved  the  ruin  by  living  in  it.  The  present  Sir  P>ancis  was 
abroad  somewhere  ;  nor  could  anybody  be  found  rich  enough 
to  rent  that  enormous  mansion,  through  the  deserted  rooms, 
mouldy  clanking  halls,  and  dismal  galleries  of  which,  Arthur 
Pendennis  manj'  a  time  walked  trembling  when  he  was  a  bo}'. 
At  sunset,  from  the  lawn  of  Fairoaks,  there  was  a  pretty  sight : 
it  and  the  opposite  park  of  Clavering  were  in  the  habit  of  put- 
ting on  a  rich  golden  tinge,  which  became  them  both  wonder- 
fully. The  upper  windows  of  the  great  house  flamed  so  as  to 
make  j'our  e3'es  wink  ;  the  little  river  ran  off  noisily  westward, 
and  was  lost  in  a  sombre  wood,  behind  which  the  towers  of  the 
old  abbey  church  of  Clavering  (whereby  that  town  is  called 
Clavering  St.  Mary's  to  the  present  day)  rose  up  in  purple 
splendor.  Little  Arthur's  figure  and  his  mother's  cast  long 
^blue  shadows  over  the  grass  :  and  he  would  repeat  in  a  low 
voice  (for  a  scene  of  great  natural  beaut}'  always  moved  the 
boy,  who  inherited  this  sensibility  from  his  mothei)  certain 
lines  beginning,  "These  are  thy  glorious  works,  Parent  of 
Good  •)  Almighty  !  thine  this  universal  frame,"  greatly  to  Mrs. 


12  PENDENNIS. 

Peodennis's  delight.  Such  walks  and  conversation  generally 
ended  in  a  profusion  of  filial  and  maternal  embraces  ;  for  to 
love  and  to  pray  were  the  main  occupations  of  this  dear  woman's 
life;  and  I  have  often  heard  Pendennis  say  in  his  wild  way, 
that  he  felt  that  he  was  sure  of  going  to  heaven,  for  his  mother 
never  could  be  happy  there  without  him. 

As  for  John  Pendennis,  as  the  father  of  the  famil}^  and  that 
sort  of  thing,  everybody'  had  the  greatest  respect  for  him  :  and 
his  orders  were  obeyed  lUce  those  of  the  Medes  and  Persians. 
His  hat  was  as  well  brushed,  perhaps,  as  that  of  an}'  man  in 
this  empire.  His  meals  were  served  at  the  same  minute  ever}' 
day,  and  woe  to  those  who  came  late,  as  little  Pen,  a  disorderly 
httle  rascal,  sometimes  did.  Praj'ers  were  recited,  his  letters 
were  read,  his  business  despatched,  his  stables  and  garden 
inspected,  his  hen-houses  and  kennel,  his  barn  and  pigsty 
visited,  always  at  regular  hours.  After  dinner  he  alwa^'s  had 
a  nap  with  the  Globe  newspaper  on  his  knee,  and  his  yellow 
bandanna  handkerchief  on  his  face  (Major  Pendennis  sent  the 
yellow  handkerchiefs  from  India,  and  his  brother  had  helped  in 
the  purchase  of  his  majority,  so  that  they  were  good  friends 
now).  And  so,  as  his  dinner  took  place  at  six  o'clock  to  a 
minute,  and  the  sunset  business  alluded  to  may  be  supposed  to 
have  occurred  at  about  half-past  seven,  it  is  probable  that  he 
did  not  much  care  for  the  view  in  front  of  his  lawn  windows, 
or  take  any  share  in  the  poetry  and  caresses  which  were  taking 
place  there. 

They  seldom  occurred  in  his  presence.  However  frisky  they 
were  before,  mother  and  child  were  hushed  and  quiet  when  Mr. 
Pendennis  walked  into  the-  drawing-room,  his  newspaper  under 
his  arm.  .  .  .  And  here,  while  little  Pen,  buried  in  a  gi-eat  chair, 
read  all  the  books  of  which  he  could  laj^  hold,  the  Squire  perused 
his  own  articles  in  the  "  Gardener's  Gazette,"  or  took  a  solemn 
hand  at  piquet  with  Mrs.  Pendennis,  or  an  occasional  friend 
from  the  village. 

Pendennis  usuall}'^  took  care  that  at  least  one  of  his  grand 
dinners  should  take  place  when  his  brother,  the  Major,  who,  on 
the  return  of  his  regiment  from  India  and  New  South  Wales, 
had  sold  out  and  gone  upon  half-pay,  came  to  pay  his  biennial 
visit  to  Fairoaks.  "  My  brother,  Major  Pendennis,"  was  a 
constant  theme  of  the  retired  Doctor's  conversation.  All  the 
famil}'  delighted  in  m}'  brother  the  Major.  He  was  the  link 
which  bound  them  to  the  great  world  of  London,  and  the  fashion. 
He  always  brought  down  the  last  news  of  the  nobility,  and 


PENDENNIS.  IS 

spoke  of  such  with  soldier-like  respect  and  decorum.  He  would 
say,  '•  My  Lord  Bareacres  has  been  good  enough  to  invite  me 
to  Bareacres  for  the  pheasant  shooting,"  or,  "  My  Lord  Steyne 
is  so  kind  as  to  wish  for  my  presence  at  Stillbrook  for  the 
Easter  holidays  ;  "  and  you  ma}-  be  sure  the  whereabouts  of  ni}- 
brother  the  Major  was  careful!}-  made  known  by  worthy  Mr. 
Pendennis  to  his  friends  at  the  Clavering  Reading-room,  at 
Justice-meetings,  or  at  the  County-town.  Their  carriages 
would  come  from  ten  miles  round  to  call  upon  Major  Pendennis 
in  his\'isits  to  Fairoaks  ;  the  fame  of  his  fashion  as  a  man  about 
town  was  established  throughout  the  county.  There  was  a 
talk  of  his  marrying  Miss  Hunkle,  of  Lilyban'k,  old  Hunkle  the 
Attorney's  daughter,  with  at  least  fifteen  hundred  a  3-ear  to  her 
fortune  ;  but  my  brother  the  Major  declined.  ''  As  a  bachelor." 
he  said,  "  nobody  cares  how  poor  I  am.  I  have  the  happiness 
to  live  with  people  who  are  so  highly  placed  in  the  world,  that 
a  few  hundreds  or  thousands  a  3-ear  more  or  less  can  make  no 
ditfei-ence  in  the  estimation  in  which  they  are  pleased  to  hold 
me.  Miss  Hunkle,  though  a  most  respectable  lad}-,  is  not  in 
t  )Ossession  of  either  the  birth  or  the  manners  which  would  entitle 
iier  to  be  received  into  the  sphere  in  which  I  haxe  the  honor  to 
move.  I  shall  live  and  die  an  old  bachelor,  John  :  and  your 
worthy  friend,  Miss  Hunkle,  I  have  no  doubt,  will  find  some 
more  worth}-  object  of  her  affection,  than  a  worn-out  old  soldier 
on  half-pay."  Time  showed  the  correctness  of  the  surmise ; 
Miss  Hunkle  married  a  young  French  nobleman,  and  is  now  at 
this  moment  living  at  Lilybank,  under  the  title  of  Baroness  de 
Carambole,  having  been  separated  from  her  wild  young  scape- 
grace of  a  Baron  very  shortly  after  their  union. 

The  Major  had  a  sincere  liking  and  regard  for  his  sister-in- 
law,  whom  he  pronounced,  and  with  perfect  truth,  to  be  as  fine 
a  lady  as  any  in  England.  Indeed,  Mrs.  Pendennis's  tranquil 
beauty,  her  natural  sweetness  and  kindness,  and  that  simplicity 
and  dignity  which  a  perfect  purity  and  innocence  are  sure  to 
bestow  upon  a  handsome  woman,  rendered  her  quite  worthy  of 
her  brother's  praises.  I  think  it  is  not  national  prejudice  which 
pmakes  me  believe  that  a  high-bred  English  lady  is  the  most 
complete  of  all  Heaven's  subjects  in  this  world.  In  whom  else 
do  you  see  so  much  grace,  and  so  much  virtue  ;  so  much  faith, 
and  so  much  tenderness  ;  with  such  a  perfect  refinement  and 
chastity?  And  by  high-bred  ladies  I  don't  mean  duchesses 
and  countesses.  Be  they  ever  so  high  in  station,  they  can  be 
but  ladies,  and  no  more.  But  almost  every  man  who  lives  in 
the  world  has  the  happiness,  let  us  hope,  of  counting  a  few  such 


K 


14  PENDENNIS. 

persons  amongst  his  circle  of  acquaintance  —  women  in  whose 
angelical  natures  there  is  something  awl'ul,  as  well  as  beau- 
tiful, to  contemplate  ;  at  whose  feet  the  wildest  and  fiercest 
of  us  must  fall  down  and  humble  ourselves,  in  admiration 
of  that  adorable  purity  which  never  seems  to  do  or  to  think 
wrong. 

Arthur  Pendennis  had  the  good  fortune  to  have  such  a 
mother.  During  his  childhood  and  youth,  the  boy  thought  of 
her  as  little  less  than  an  angel  —  a  supernatural  being,  all 
wisdom,  love,  and  beauty.  When  her  husband  drove  her  into 
the  county-town,  to  the  assize  balls  or  concerts,  he  would  step 
into  the  assembly  with  his  wife  on  his  arm,  and  look  the  great 
folks  in  the  face,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Look  at  that,  my  lord ; 
can  any  of  you  show  me  a  woman  like  that  ? "  She  enraged 
some  country'  ladies  with  three  times  her  money,  by  a  sort  of 
desperate  perfection  which  the}-  found  in  her.  Miss  Pybus  said 
she  was  cold  and  haught}- ;  Miss  Pierce,  that  she  was  too  proud  for 
her  station  ;  Mrs.  AVapshot,  as  a  doctor  of  divinitj^'s  lady,  would 
have  the  jxis  of  her,  who  was  onl^^  the  wife  of  a  medical  prac- 
titioner. In  the  meanwhile,  this  lady  moved  through  the  world 
quite  regardless  of  all  the  comments  that  were  made  in  her 
praise  or  disfavor.  She  did  not  seem  to  know  that  she  was 
admired  or  hated  for  being  so  perfect ;  but  carried  on  calmly 
through  life,  saying  her  prayers,  loving  her  famil}',  helping  her 
neighbors,  and  doing  her  dut3^ 

That  even  a  woman  should  be  faultless,  however,  is  an 
arrangement  not  permitted  by  nature,  which  assigns  to  us 
mental  defects,  as  it  awards  to  us  headaches,  illnesses,  or  death  : 
without  which  the  scheme  of  the  world  could  not  be  carried  on,  — 
nay,  some  of  the  best  qualities  of  mankind  could  not  be  brought 
into  exercise.  As  pain  produces  or  elicits  fortitude  and  en- 
durance ;  difficult}',  perseverance  ;  poverty,  industry  and  inge- 
nuity ;  danger,  courage  and  what  not;  so  the  very  virtues,  on 
the  other  hand,  will  generate  some  vices;  and,  in  fine,  Mrs. 
Pendennis  had  that  vice  which  Miss  Pybus  and  Miss  Pierce 
discovered  in  her,  namely,  that  of  pride  ;  which  did  not  vest 
itself  so  much  in  her  own  person,  as  in  that  of  her  famil3\  She 
spoke  about  Mr.  Pendennis  (a  worthy  little  gentleman  enough, 
but  there  are  others  as  good  as  he)  with  an  awful  reverence,  as 
if  he  had  been  the  Pope  of  Rome  on  his  throne,  and  she  a  car- 
dinal kneeling  at  liis  feet,  and  giving  him  incense.  The  Major 
she  held  to  be  a  sort  of  Ba3'ard  among  Majors :  and  as  for  her 
son  Arthur  she  worshipped  that  youth  with  an  ardor  which  the 
young  scapegrace  accepted  almost  as  coolly  as  the  statue  of 


PENDENNIS.  15 

the  Saint  in  Saint  Peter's  receives  the  rapturous  osculations 
which  the  faithful  deliver  on  his  toe. 

This  unfortunate  superstition  and  idol -worship  of  this  good 
woman  was  the  cause  of  a  great  deal  of  the  misfortune  which 
hefell  the  young  gentleman  who  is  the  hero  of  this  history,  and 
deserves  tiierefore  to  be  mentioned  at  the  outset  of  his  story. 

Arthur  Pendennis's  schoolfellows  at  the  Grey  Friars  School 
state  that,  as  a  bo3%  he  was  in  no  ways  remarkable  either  as  a 
dunce  or  as  a  scholar.  He  never  read  to  improve  himself  out 
of  school-hours,  but,  on  the  contrary,  devoured  all  the  novels, 
plays,  and  poetry,  on  which  he  could  lay  his  hands.  He  never 
was  flogged,  but  it  was  a  wonder  how  he  escaped  the  whipping- 
post. When  he  had  money  he  spent  it  royally  in  tarts  for  him- 
self and  his  friends  ;  he  has  been  known  to  disburse  nine  and 
sixpence  out  of  ten  shillings  awarded  to  him  in  a  single  day. 
When  he  had  no  funds  he  went  on  tick.  When  he  could  get 
no  credit  he  went  without,  and  was  almost  as  happy.  He  has 
been  known  to  take  a  thrashing  for  a  crony  without  saying  a 
word  ;  but  a  blow,  ever  so  slight  from  a  friend,  would  make 
him  roar.  To  fighting  he  was  averse  from  his  earliest  youth, 
as  indeed  to  physic,  the  Greek  Grammar,  or  any  other  exertion, 
and  would  engage  in  none  of  them,  except  at  the  last  extremity. 
He  seldom  if  ever  told  lies,  and  never  bullied  little  boys. 
Those  masters  or  seniors  who  were  kind  to  him,  he  loved  with 
bo3-ish  ardor.  And  though  the  Doctor,  when  he  did  not  know 
his  Horace,  or  could  not  construe  his  Greek  play,  said  that  that 
boy  Pendennis  was  a  disgrace  to  the  school,  a  candidate  for 
rufn  in  this  world,  and  perdition  in  the  next;  a  profligate  who 
would  most  likely  bring  his  venerable  father  to  ruin  and  his 
mother  to  a  dishonored  grave,  and  the  like  — yet  as  the  Doctor 
made  use  of  these  compliments  to  most  of  the  boj's  in  the  place 
(which  has  not  turned  out  an  unusual  number  of  felons  and 
pickpockets),  little  Pen,  at  first  uneasy  and  terrified  by  these 
charges,  became  gradually  accustomed  to  hear  them  ;  and  he 
has  not,  in  fact,  either  murdered  his  parents,  or  committed  any 
act  woi'thy  of  transportation  or  hanging  up  to  the  present  day. 

There  were  many  of  the  upper  boys,  among  the  Cistercians 
with  whom  Pendennis  was  educated,  who  assumed  all  the  privi- 
leges of  men  long  before  they  quitted  that  seminary.  Many  of 
them,  for  example,  smoked  cigars  —  and  some  had  already  be- 
gun the  practice  of  inebriation.  One  had  fought  a  duel  with 
an  Ensign  in  a  marching  regiment  in  consequence  of  a  row  at 
tiie  theatre  —  another  actually  kept  a  buggy  and  horse  at  a 
livery  stable  in  Covent  Gardeii,  and  might  be  seen  driving  any 


16  PENDENNIS. 

Sunday  in  Hyde  Park  with  a  groom  with  squared  arms  and 
armorial  buttons  b}'  his  side.  Many  of  the  seniors  were  in 
love,  and  showed  each  other  in  confidence  poems  addressed 
to,  or  letters  and  locks  of  hair  received  from,  3'oung  ladies  — 
but  Pen,  a  modest  and  timid  youth,  rather  envied  these  than 
imitated  them  as  yet.  He  had  not  got  beyond  the  theory  as 
yet  —  the  practice  of  life  was  all  to  come.  And  by  the  way, 
ye  tender  mothers  and  sober  fathers  of  Christian  famiUes,  a 
prodigious  thing  that  theor}'  of  life  is  as  orall}^  learned  at  a 
great  public  school.  Why,  if  you  could  hear  those  boys  of 
fourteen  who  blush  before  mothers  and  sneak  off  in  silence  in 
the  presence  of  their  daughters,  talldng  among  each  other  — 
it  would  be  the  woman's  turn  to  blush  then.  Before  he  was 
twelve  3'ears  old  little  Pen  had  heard  talk  enough  to  make  him 
quite  awfully'  wise  upon  certain  points  —  and  so.  Madam,  has 
your  pretty  little  ros^'-cheeked  son,  who  is  coming  home  from 
school  for  the  ensuing  holidays.  I  don't  say  that  the  bo}'  is 
lost,  or  that  the  innocence  has  left  him  which  he  had  from 
"  Heaven,  which  is  our  home,"  but  that  the  shades  of  the 
prison-house  are  closing  verj'  fast  over  him,  and  that  we  are 
helping  as  much  as  possible  to  corrupt  him. 

Well  —  Pen  had  just  made  his  public  appearance  in  a  coat 
with  a  tail,  or  cauda-virilis,  and  was  looking  most  anxiousl}'  in 
his  Uttle  stud3'-glass  to  see  if  his  whiskers  were  growing,  like 
those  of  more  fortunate  youths  his  companions  ;  and,  instead 
of  the  treble  voice  with  which  he  used  to  speak  and  sing  (for 
his  singing  voice  was  a  very  sweet  one,  and  he  used  when  little 
to  be  made  to  perform  "  Home,  sweet  Home,"  "  M}'  pretty 
Page,"  and  a  French  song  or  two  which  his  mother  had  taught 
him,  and  other  ballads  for  the  delectation  of  the  senior  boys), 
had  suddenly  plunged  into  a  deep  bass  diversified  by  a  squeak, 
which  set  master  and  scholars  laughing  —  he  was  about  sixteen 
3'ears  old  in  a  word,  when  he  was  suddenl3^  called  away  from 
his  academic  studies. 

It  was  at  the  close  of  the  forenoon  school,  and  Pen  had 
been  unnoticed  all  the  previous  part  of  the  morning  till  now, 
when  the  Doctor  put  him  on  to  construe  in  a  Greek  pla3^  He 
did  not  know  a  word  of  it,  though  little  Timmins,  his  form 
fellow,  was  prompting  him  with  all  his  might.  Pen  had  made 
a  sad  blunder  or  two  —  when  the  awful  chief  broke  out  upon 
him. 

"  Pendennis,  sir,"  he  said,  "your  idleness  is  incorrigible 
and  your  stupidit3'  beyond  example.  You  are  a  disgrace  to 
your  school,  and  to  30ur  family,  and  I  have  no  doubt  will 


PENDENNIS.  17 

prove  so  in  after-life  to  your  country.  If  that  vice,  sir,  which 
is  described  to  us  us  the  root  of  all  evil,  be  really  what  moral- 
ists have  represented  (and  1  have  no  doubt  of  the  correctness 
of  their  opinion),  for  what  a  prodigious  quantity  of  future 
crime  and  wickedness  are  30U,  unhappy  bo}',  laying  the  seed  ! 
Miserable  trifler !  A  bo}-  who  construes  8  e  and,  instead  of  8  c 
but,  at  sixteen  years  of  age,  is  guilt}'  not  merely  of  folly,  and 
ignorance,  and  dulness  inconceivable,  but  of  crime,  of  deadly' 
crime,  of  filial  ingratitude,  which  I  tremble  to  contemplate. 
A  boy,  sir,  who  does  not  learn  his  Greek  play  cheats  the  par- 
ent who  spends  mone^'  for  his  education.  A  boy  who  cheats 
his  parent  is  not  very  far  from  robbing  or  forging  upon  his 
neighbor.  A  man  who  forges  on  his  neighbor  pays  the  pen- 
alty of  his  crime  at  the  gallows.  And  it  is  not  such  a  one 
that  I  pit}-  (for  he  will  be  deservedly  cut  off)  ;  but  his  mad- 
dened and  heart-broken  parents,  who  are  driven  to  a  prema- 
ture grave  b}-  his  crimes,  or,  if  they  live,  drag  on  a  wretched 
and  dishonored  old  age.  Go  on,  sir,  and  I  warn  j'ou  that  the 
very  next  mistake  that  you  mal^e  shall  subject  you  to  the  pun- 
ishment of  the  rod.  Who's  that  laughing?  What  ill-condi- 
tioned bo}-  is  there  that  dares  to  laugh  ?  "  shouted  the  Doctor. 

Indeed,  while  the  master  was  making  this  oration,  there  was 
a  general  titter  behind  him  in  the  school-room.  The  orator 
had  his  back  to  the  door  of  this  ancient  apartment,  which  was 
open,  and  a  gentleman  who  was  quite  familiar  with  the  place, 
for  both  Major  Arthur  and  Mr.  John  Pendennis  had  been  at 
the  school,  was  asking  the  fifth-form  boy  who  sat  by  the  door 
for  Pendennis.  The  lad  grinning  pointed  to  the  culprit  against 
whom  the  Doctor  was  pouring  out  the  thunders  of  his  just 
wrath  — Major  Pendennis  could  not  help  laughing.  He  re- 
membered having  stood  under  that  very  pillar  where  Pen  the 
3'ounger  now  stood,  and  having  been  assaulted  by  the  Doctor's 
predecessor  years  and  years  ago.  The  intelligence  was  "  passed 
round  "  that  it  was  Pendennis's  uncle  in  an  instant,  and  a  hun- 
dred young  faces  wondering  and  giggling,  between  terror  and 
laughter,  turned  now  to  the  new  comer  and  then  to  the  awful 
Doctor. 

The  Major  asked  the  fifth-form  boy  to  carry  his  card  up  to 
the  Doctor,  which  the  lad  did  with  an  arch  look.  Major  Pen- 
dennis had  written  on  the  card,  "I  must  take  A.  P.  home  ;  his 
father  is  very  ill." 

As  the  Doctor  received  the  card,  and  stopped  his  harangue 
with  rather  a  scared  look,  the  laughter  of  the  boys,  half  con- 
Btrained  until  then,  burst  out  ni  a  general  shout.     "  Silence  !  " 


18  PENDENNIS. 

roared  out  the  Doctor  stamping  with  his  foot.  Pen  looked  up 
and  saw  who  was  his  deUverer ;  the  Major  beckoned  to  him 
gravely,  and  tumbling  down  his  books,  Pen  went  across. 

The  Doctor  took  out  his  watch.  It  was  two  minutes  to  one. 
"  We  will  take  the  Juvenal  at  afternoon  school,"  he  said,  nod- 
ding to  the  Captain,  and  all  the  bo3's  understanding  the  signal 
gathered  up  their  books  and  poured  out  of  the  hall. 

Young  Pen  saw  by  his  uncle's  face  that  something  had  hap- 
pened at  home.  "Is  there  anything  the  matter  with  —  my 
mother?"  he  said.  He  could  hardl}'  speak,  though,  for  emo- 
tion, and  the  tears  which  were  ready  to  start. 

"No,"  said  the  Major,  "but  your  father's  very  ill.  Go 
and  pack  your  trunk  directly  ;  I  have  got  a  post-chaise  at  the 
gate." 

Pen  went  off  quickly  to  his  boarding-house  to  do  as  his  uncle 
bade  him  ;  and  the  Doctor,  now  left  alone  in  the  school-room, 
came  out  to  shake  hands  with  his  eld  schoolfellow.  You  would 
not  have  thought  it  was  the  same  man.  As  Cinderella,  at  a  par- 
ticular hour  became,  from  a  blazing  and  magnificent  princess, 
quite  an  ordinary  little  maid  in  a  gray  petticoat,  so,  as  the 
clock  struck  one,  all  the  thundering  majest}^  and  awful  wrath 
of  the  schoolmaster  disappeared. 

"  There  is  nothing  serious,  I  hope,"  said  the  Doctor.  "  It 
is  a  pit}'  to  take  the  boy  otherwise.  He  is  a  good  boy,  rather 
idle  and  unenergetic,  but  an  honest  gentlemanlike  little  fellow, 
though  I  can't  get  him  to  construe  as  I  wish.  Won't  j'ou  come 
in  and  have  some  luncheon  ?  M}'  wife  will  be  very  happy  to 
see  you." 

But  Major  Pendennis  declined  the  luncheon.  He  said  his 
brother  was  very  ill,  had  had  a  fit  the  day  before,  and  it  was  a 
great  question  if  the}'  should  see  him  alive. 

"There's  no  other  son,  is  there?"  said  the  Doctor.  The 
Major  answered  "  No." 

"  And  there's  a  good  eh  —  a  good  eh  —  propert}^  I  believe?  " 
asked  the  other  in  an  off-hand  way. 

"  H'm  —  so  so,"  said  the  Major.  Whereupon  this  colloquy 
came  to  an  end.  And  Arthur  Pendennis  got  into  a  post-chaise 
with  his  uncle,  never  to  come  back  to  school  any  more. 

As  the  chaise  drove  through  Clavering,  the  ostler  standing 
whistling  under  the  archway  of  the  Clavering  Arras,  winked  to 
the  postilion  ominousl}',  as  much  as  to  say  aU  was  over.  The 
gardener's  wife  came  and  opened  the  lodge-gates,  and  let  the 
travellers  through  with  a  silent  shake  of  the  head.  All  the 
blinds  were  down  at  Fairoaks  —  the  face  of  the  old  footmau 


PENDENNIS.  19 

was  as  blank  when  he  let  them  in.  Arthur's  face  was  white 
too,  with  terror  more  than  with  grief.  Whatever  of  warmth 
and  love  the  deceased  man  might  have  had.  and  he  adored  his 
wife  and  lovt'd  and  admired  his  son  with  all  his  heart,  he  had 
shut  them  up  within  himself;  nor  had  the  boy  been  ever  able 
to  penetrate  that  frigid  outward  barrier.  Bat  Arthur  had  been 
his  father's  pride  and  glory  through  life,  and  his  name  the  last 
which  John  Pendennis  had  tried  to  articulate  whilst  lie  lay  with 
his  wife's  hand  clasping  his  own  cold  and  clammy  palm,  as  the 
flickering  spirit  went  out  into  the  darkness  of  death,  and  life 
and  the  world  passed  away  from  him. 

The  little  girl,  whose  face  had  peered  for  a  moment  under 
the  blinds  as  the  chaise  came  up,  opened  the  door  from  the 
stairs  into  the  hall,  and  taking  Arthur's  hand  silently  as  he 
stooped  down  to  kiss  her,  led  him  up  stairs  to  his  mother.  Old 
John  opened  the  dining-room  for  the  Major.  The  room  was 
darkened  with  the  blinds  down,  and  surrounded  b}'  all  the 
gloomy  pictures  of  the  Fendennises.  He  drank  a  glass  of  wine. 
The  bottle  had  been  opened  for  the  Squire  four  days  before. 
His  hat  was  brushed,  and  laid  on  the  hall  table :  his  news- 
papers, and  his  letter  bag,  with  John  Pendennis,  Esquire,  Fair- 
oaks,  engraved  upon  the  brass  plate,  were  there  in  waiting. 
The  doctor  and  the  lawyer  from  Clavering,  who  had  seen  the 
chaise  pass  through,  came  up  in  a  gig  half  an  hour  after  the 
Major's  arrival,  and  entered  by  the  back  door.  The  former 
gave  a  detailed  account  of  the  seizure  and  demise  of  Mr.  Pen- 
dennis, enlarged  on  his  virtues  and  the  estimation  in  which 
the  neighborhood  held  him  ;  on  what  a  loss  he  would  be  to 
the  magistrates'  bench,  the  County  Hospital,  &c.  Mrs.  Pen- 
dennis bore  up  wonderfully,  he  said,  especially  since  Master 
Arthur's  arrival.  The  lawyer  stayed  and  dined  with  IMajor 
Pendennis,  and  they  talked  business  all  the  evening.  The 
Major  was  his  brother's  executor,  and  joint  guardian  to  the 
boy  with  Mre,  Pendennis.  Everything  was  left  unreservedly  to 
her,  except  in  case  of  a  second  marriage,  —  an  occasion  which 
might  offer  itself  in  the  case  of  so  young  and  handsome  a 
woman,  Mr.  Tatham  gallantly  said,  when  different  provisions 
were  enacted  by  the  deceased.  The  Major  would  of  course 
take  entire  superintendence  of  everything  upon  this  most  im- 
pressive and  melancholv  occasion.  Aware  of  this  autliority, 
old  John  the  focjtmau,  when  he  brought  ISfajor  Pendennis  the 
candle  to  go  to  bcfl,  Ibllowed  afterv.'ards  with  the  plate-basket; 
and  the  next  morning  brought  him  the  ke}'  of  the  hall  clock  — 
tlie  Squire  always  used  to  wind  it  up  of  a  Thursda}',  John  said. 


20  PENDENNIS. 

Mrs.  Pendennis's  maid  brought  him  messages  from  her  mis- 
tress. She  confirmed  the  doctor's  report,  of  the  comfort  which 
Master  Arthur's  arrival  had  caused  to  his  mother. 

What  passed  between  that  lad}^  and  the  boy  is  not  of  im- 
port. A  veil  should  be  thrown  over  those  sacred  emotions  of 
love  and  grief.  The  maternal  passion  is  a  sacred  myster}'  to 
me.  What  one  sees  s^^mbolized  in  the  Roman  churches  in  the 
image  of  the  Virgin  Mother  with  a  bosom  bleeding  with  love,  I 
think  one  may  witness  (and  admire  the  Almighty  bounty  for) 
every  day.  I  saw  a  Jewish  lady,  onl}'  yesterda}-,  with  a  child 
at  her  knee,  and  from  whose  face  towards  the  child  there  shone 
a  sweetness  so  angelical,  that  it  seemed  to  form  a  sort  of  glory 
round  both.  I  protest  I  could  have  knelt  before  her  too,  and 
adored  in  her  the  Divine  beneficence  in  endowing  us  with  the 
maternal  storge^  which  began  with  our  race  and  sanctifies  the 
history  of  mankind. 

As  for  Arthur  Pendennis,  after  that  awful  shock  which  the 
sight  of  his  dead  father  must  have  produced  on  him,  and  the 
pity  and  feeling  which  such  an  event  no  doubt  occasioned,  I  am 
not  sure  that  in  the  very  moment  of  the  gi'ief,  and  as  he  em- 
braced his  mother,  and  tenderly  consoled  her,  and  promised  to 
love  her  for  ever,  there  was  not  springing  up  in  his  breast  a 
sort  of  secret  triumph  and  exultation.  He  was  the  chief  now 
and  lord.  He  was  Pendennis  ;  and  all  round  about  him  were 
his  servants  and  handmaids.  "You'll  never  send  me  aw  a}^" 
little  Laura  said,  tripping  by  him,  and  holding  his  hand.  "  You 
won't  send  me  to  school,  will  3-ou,  Arthur?" 

Arthur  kissed  her  and  patted  her  head.  No,  she  shouldn't 
go  to  school.  As  for  going  himself,  that  was  quite  out  of  the 
question.  He  had  determined  that  that  part  of  his  life  should 
not  be  renewed.  In  the  midst  of  the  general  grief,  and  the 
corpse  still  h'ing  above,  he  had  leisure  to  conclude  that  he 
would  have  it  all  holidays  for  the  future,  that  he  wouldn't  get 
up  till  he  liked,  or  stand  the  bullying  of  the  Doctor  any  more, 
and  had  made  a  hundred  of  such  da}^  dreams  and  resolves  for 
the  future.  How  one's  thoughts  will  travel !  and  how  quickly 
our  wishes  beget  them  !  When  he  with  Laura  in  his  hand  went 
into  the  kitchen  on  his  way  to  the  dog-kennel,  the  fowl-houses, 
and  other  his  favorite  haunts,  all  the  servants  there  assembled 
in  great  silence  with  their  friends,  and  the  laboring  men  and 
their  wives,  and  Sally  Potter  who  went  with  the  post-bag  to 
Clavering,  and  the  baker's  man  from  Clavering  —  all  there  as- 
sembled and  drinking  beer  on  the  melanchol}'  occasion  —  rose 
up  on  his  entrance  and  bowed  or  curtsied  to  him.     They  neve* 


PENDENNIS.  21 

used  to  do  so  last  hoHdaA-s,  he  felt  at  once  and  with  indescribable 
pleasure.  The  cook  cried  out,  "  O  Lord,"  and  whispered  "■'  How 
Master  Arthur  do  grow  !  "  Thomas,  the  groom,  in  the  act  of 
drinking,  put  down  the  jug  alarmed  before  his  master.  Thomas's 
master  felt  the  honor  keenly.  He  went  through  and  looked  at 
the  pointers.  As  Flora  put  her  nose  up  to  his  waistcoat,  and 
Ponto,  3'elling  with  pleasm-e,  hurtled  at  his  chain.  Pen  patron- 
ized the  dogs,  and  said  "Poo  Ponto,  poo  Flora,"  in  his  most 
condescending  manner.  And  then  he  went  and  looked  at 
Laura's  hens,  and  at  the  pigs,  and  at  the  orchard,  and  at  the 
dairy  ;  perhaps  he  blushed  to  think  that  it  was  only  last  holidays 
he  had  in  a  manner  robbed  the  great  apple-tree,  and  been  scolded 
by  the  dairymaid  for  taking  cream. 

They  buried  John  Pendennis,  Esquire,  "  formerly  an  eminent 
medical  practitioner  at  Bath,  and  subsequently  an  able  magis- 
trate, a  benevolent  landlord,  and  a  benefactor  to  many  charities 
and  public  institutions  in  this  neighborhood  and  countr}',"  with 
one  of  the  most  handsome  funerals  that  had  been  seen  since  Sir 
Roger  Clavering  was  buried  here,  the  clerk  said,  in  the  abbey 
church  of  Clavering  St.  Mary's.  A  fair  marble  slab,  from  which 
the  above  inscription  is  copied,  was  erected  over  the  Fairoaks' 
pew  in  the  church.  On  it  30U  may  see  the  Pendennis  coat  of 
arras  and  crest,  an  eagle  looking  towards  the  sun,  with  the 
motto  "  nee  tenui  pennd"  to  the  present  da}'.  Doctor  Portman 
alluded  to  the  deceased  most  handsomel}-  and  affectingly,  as 
"  our  dear  departed  friend,"  in  his  sermon  next  Sunday;  and 
Arthur  Pendennis  reigned  in  his  stead. 


CHAPTER  in. 
4 

m   WHICH    PENDENNIS   APPEARS    AS    A   VERT    YOUNG    MAN    INDEED" 

Arthur  was  about  sixteen  years  old,  we  have  said,  when 
he  began  to  reign  ;  in  person,  he  had  what  his  friends  would 
call  a  dumpy,  but  his  mamma  st3'led  a  neat  little  figure.  His 
hair  was  of  a  healthy  brown  color,  which  looks  like  gold  in  the 
sunshine,  his  face  was  round,  rosy,  freckled,  and  good-humored, 
his  whiskers  were  decidedly  of  a  reddish  hue  ;  in  fact,  without 
being  a  beauty,  he  had  such  a  frank,  good-natured  kind  face, 
and  laughed  so  merril}-  at  3'ou  out  of  his  honest  blue  eyes,  that 
no  wonder  Mrs.  Pendennis  thought  him  the  pride  of  the  Avhole 


22  PENDENNIS. 

country.  Between  the  ages  of  sixteen  and  eighteen  he  rose 
from  five  feet  six  to  five  feet  eight  inches  in  height,  at  which 
altitude  he  paused.  But  his  mother  wondered  at  it.  He  was 
three  inches  taller  than  his  father.  Was  it  possible  that  any 
man  could  grow  to  be  three  inches  taller  than  Mr.  Pendennis  ? 

You  may  be  certain  he  never  went  back  to  school ;  the  dis- 
cipline of  the  establishment  did  not  suit  him,  and  he  liked  being 
at  home  much  better.  The  question  of  his  return  was  debated, 
and  his  uncle  was  for  his  going  back.  The  Doctor  wrote  his 
opinion  that  it  was  most  important  for  Arthur's  success  in 
after-life  that  he  should  know  a  Greek  play  thoroughly,  but 
Pen  adroitly  managed  to  hint  to  his  mother  what  a  dangerous 
place  Grey  Friars  was,  and  what  sad  wild  fellows  some  of  tht> 
chaps  there  were,  and  the  timid  soul,  taking  alarm  at  once, 
acceded  to  his  desire  to  sta}'  at  home. 

Then  Pen's  uncle  offered  to  use  his  influence  with  His  Royal 
Highness  the  Commander-in-Chief,  who  was  pleased  to  be  very 
kind  to  him,  and  proposed  to  get  Pen  a  commission  in  the  Foot 
Guards.  Pen's  heart  leaped  at  this  :  he  had  been  to  hear  the 
band  at  St.  James's  play  on  a  Sunda}',  when  he  went  out  to  his 
uncle.  He  had  seen  Tom  Ricketts,  of  the  fourth  form,  who 
used  to  wear  a  jacket  and  trowsers  so  ludicrously  tight,  that 
the  elder  bo^'s  could  not  forbear  using  him  in  the  quality  of  a 
butt  or  ' '  cocksh}' "  —  he  had  seen  this  very  Ricketts  arrayed 
in  crimson  and  gold,  with  an  immense  bearskin  cap  on  his 
head,  staggering  under  the  colors  of  the  regiment.  Tom  had 
recognized  him  and  gave  him  a  patronizing  nod.  Tom,  a  little 
wretch  whom  he  had  cut  over  the  back  with  a  hocke3'-stick  last 
quarter  —  and  there  he  was  in  the  centre  of  the  square,  raHying 
round  the  flag  of  his  countr}',  surrounded  hy  bayonets,  cross- 
belts,  and  scarlet,  the  band  blowing  trumpets  and  banging 
cymbals  —  talking  familiarly  to  immense  warriors  with  tufts  to 
their  chins  and  Waterloo  medals.  What  would  not  Pen  have 
given  to  enter  such  a  service  ? 

But  Helen  Pendennis,  when  this  point  was  proposed  to  her 
by  her  son,  put  on  a  face  full  of  terror  and  alarm.  She  said 
"  she  did  not  quarrel  with  others  who  thought  diflferently,  but 
that  in  her  opinion  a  Christian  had  no  right  to  make  the  army 
a  profession.  Mr.  Pendennis  never,  never  would  have  per- 
mitted his  son  to  be  a  soldier.  Finally,  she  should  be  ver}^ 
unhappy  if  he  thought  of  it."  Now  Pen  would  have  as  soon  cut 
off  his  nose  and  ears  as  deliberatel}',  and  of  aforethought  malice, 
made  his  mother  unhapp}' ;  and,  as  he  was  of  such  a  generous 
disposition  that  he  would  give  away  anything  to  anj^  one,  be  ia- 


PENDENNIS.  23 

stantty  made  a  present  of  his  visionary  red  coat  and  epaulettes 
to  his  mother. 

She  thought  him  the  noblest  creature  in  the  world.  But 
Major  Pendennis,  when  the  offer  of  the  commission  was  ac- 
knowledged and  refused,  wrote  back  a  curt  and  somewhat 
angry  letter  to  the  widow,  and  thought  his  nephew  was  rather 
a  spooney. 

He  was  contented,  however,  when  he  saw  the  boy's  per- 
formances out  hunting  at  Christmas,  when  the  Major  came 
down  as  usual  to  Fairoaks.  Pen  had  a  ver^'  good  mare,  and 
rode  her  with  uncommon  pluck  and  grace.  He  took  his  fences 
with  great  coolness  and  judgment.  He  wrote  to  the  chaps 
at  school  about  his  top-boots,  and  his  feats  across  countiy. 
He  began  to  think  seriously  of  a  scarlet  coat :  and  his  mother 
must  own  that  she  thought  it  would  become  him  remarkabh' 
well ;  though,  of  course,  she  passed  hours  of  anguish  during 
his  absence,  and  dail}'  expected  to  see  him  brought  home  on  a 
shutter. 

With  these  amusements,  in  rather  too  great  plent}',  it  must 
not  be  assumed  that  Pen  neglected  his  studies  altogether.  He 
had  a  natural  taste  for  reading  every  possible  kind  of  book 
which  did  not  fall  into  his  school-course.  It  was  only  when 
they  forced  his  head  into  the  waters  of  knowledge  that  he  re- 
fused to  drink.  He  devoured  all  the  books  at  home,  from 
Inchbald's  Theatre  to  White's  Farriery ;  he  ransacked  the 
neighboring  book-cases.  He  found  at  Clavering  an  old  cargo 
of  French  novels,  which  he  read  with  all  his  might ;  and  he 
would  sit  for  hours  perched  up  on  the  topmost  bar  of  Doctor 
Portman's  librar}'  steps  with  a  folio  on  his  knees,  whether  it 
were  Hakluyt's  Travels,  Hobbes's  Leviathan,  Augustini  Opera, 
or  Chaucer's  Poems.  He  and  the  Vicar  were  very  good  friends, 
and  from  his  Reverence,  Pen  learned  that  honest  taste  for  port 
wine  which  distinguished  him  through  life.  And  as  for  Mrs. 
Portman,  who  was  not  in  the  least  jealous,  though  her  Doctor 
avowed  himself  in  love  with  Mrs.  Pendennis,  whom  he  pro- 
nounced to  be  by  far  the  finest  lady  in  the  country  —  all  her 
grief  was,  as  she  looked  up  fondl}'  at  Pen  perched  on  the  book- 
ladder,  that  her  daughter,  Minn}-,  was  too  old  for  him  —  as 
indeed  she  was  —  Miss  Maria  Portman  being  at  that  period 
onl}-  two  years  younger  than  Pen's  mother,  and  weighing  as 
much  as  Pen  and  Mrs.  Pendennis  together. 

Are  these  details  insipid?  Look  back,  good  friend,  at  your 
own  youth,  and  ask  how  was  that?  I  like  to  think  of  a  well- 
nurtured  boy,  brave  and  gentle,  warm-hearted  and  loving,  and 


24  PENDENNIS. 

looking  the  world  in  the  face  with  kind  honest  eyes.  What 
oright  colors  it  wore  then,  and  how  you  enjo^^ed  it !  A  man 
has  not  many  3'ears  of  such  time.  He  does  not  know  them 
whilst  they  are  with  him.  It  is  onl}^  when  they  are  passed  long 
away  that  he  remembers  how  dear  and  happy  they  were. 

Mr.  Smirke,  Dr.  Portman's  curate,  was  engaged,  at  a  liberai 
salary,  to  walk  or  ride  over  from  Clavering  and  pass  several 
hours  daily  with  the  young  gentleman.  Smirke  was  a  man 
perfectly  faultless  at  a  tea-table,  wore  a  curl  on  his  fair  fore- 
nead,  and  tied  his  neck-cloth  with  a  melanchol}^  grace.  He 
was  a  decent  scholar  and  mathematician,  and  taught  Pen  as 
much  as  the  lad  was  ever  disposed  to  learn,  which  was  not 
much.  For  Pen  had  soon  taken  the  measure  of  his  tutor,  who, 
when  he  came  riding  into  the  court-^^ard  at  Fairoaks  on  his 
pony,  turned  out  his  toes  so  absurdly,  and  left  such  a  gap 
between  his  knees  and  the  saddle,  that  it  was  impossible  for 
an}^  lad  endowed  with  a  sense  of  humor  to  respect  such  an 
equesti'ian.  He  nearly  killed  Smirke  with  terror  by  putting 
him  on  his  mare,  and  taking  him  a  ride  over  a  common,  w^here 
the  county  fox-hounds  (then  hunted  by  that  staunch  old  sports- 
man, Mr.  Hardhead,  of  Dumplingbeare)  happened  to  meet. 
Mr.  Smirke,  on  Pen's  mare,  Rebecca  (she  was  named  after 
Pen's  favorite  heroine,  the  daughter  of  Isaac  of  York),  as- 
tounded the  hounds  as  much  as  he  disgusted  the  huntsman, 
laming  one  of  the  former  by  persisting  in  riding  amongst  the 
pack,  and  receiving  a  speech  from  the  latter,  more  remarkable 
for  energj'  of  language,  than  any  oration  he  had  ever  heard 
since  he  left  the  bargemen  on  the  banks  of  Isis. 

Smirke  and  his  pupil  read  the  ancient  poets  together,  and 
rattled  through  them  at  a  pleasant  rate,  very  different  from 
that  steady  grubbing  pace  with  which  the  Cistercians  used  to 
go  over  the  classic  gi'ound,  scenting  out  each  word  as  they 
went,  and  digging  up  every  root  in  the  way.  Pen  never  liked 
to  halt,  but  made  his  tutor  construe  when  he  was  at  fault,  and 
thus  galloped  through  the  Iliad  and  the  Odj'sse}^  the  tragic 
plaj^- writers,  and  the  charming  wicked  Aristophanes  (whom  he 
vowed  to  be  the  greatest  poet  of  all).  But  he  went  so  fast 
that,  though  he  certainly"  galloped  through  a  considerable  ex- 
tent of  the  ancient  country,  he  clean  forgot  it  in  after-life,  and 
had  onl3^  such  a  vague  remembrance  of  his  earl}'^  classic  course 
as  a  man  has  in  the  House  of  Commons,  let  us  saj-,  who  still 
keeps  up  two  or  three  quotations  ;  or  a  reviewer  who,  just  for 
decency's  sake,  hints  at  a  little  Greek. 

Besides  the  ancient  poets,  you  may  be  sure  Pen  read  the 


PENDENNIS.  25 

English  with  great  gusto.  Smirke  sighed  and  shook  his  head 
sadl>-  both  about  Byron  and  Moore.  But  Pen  was  a  sworn 
fire-worshipper  and  a  Corsair ;  he  had  tliem  by  heart,  and  used 
to  take  little  Laura  into  the  window  and  say,  "  Zuleika,  I  am 
not  th}-  brother,"  in  tones  so  tragic,  that  the}'  caused  the  solemn 
little  maid  to  open  her  great  eyes  still  wider.  She  sat,  until 
the  proper  hour  for  retirement,  sewing  at  Mrs.  Pendennis's 
knee,  and  listening  to  Pen  reading  out  to  her  of  nights  without 
comprehending  one  word  of  what  he  said. 

He  read  Shakspeare  to  his  mother  (which  she  said  she 
liked,  but  didn't),  and  Bjtou,  and  Pope,  and  his  favorite  Lalla 
Rookh,  which  pleased  her  indifferenth'.  But  as  for  Bishop 
Heber,  and  Mrs.  Hemans  above  all,  this  lady  used  to  melt 
right  away,  and  be  absorbed  into  her  pocket-handkerchief, 
when  Pen  read  those  authors  to  her  in  his  kind  boyish  voice. 
The  ' '  Chi'istian  Year  "  was  a  book  which  appeared  about  that 
time.  The  son  and  the  mother  whispered  it  to  each  other  with 
awe  —  Faint,  very  faint,  and  seldom  in  after-life  Pendennis 
heard  that  solemn  church-music :  but  he  always  loved  the  re- 
membrance of  it,  and  of  the  times  when  it  struck  on  his  heart, 
and  he  walked  over  the  fields  full  of  hope  and  void  of  doubt,  as 
the  church-bells  rang  on  Sunday  morning. 

It  was  at  this  period  of  his  existence,  that  Pen  broke  out  in 
the  Poet's  Corner  of  the  County  Chronicle,  with  some  verses 
with  which  he  was  perfectly  well  satisfied.  His  are  the  verses 
signed  "  NEP.,"  adclressed  "  To  a  Tear  ;  "  "On  the  Anniver- 
sar}'  of  the  Battle  of  Waterloo  ;  "  "  To  Madame  Caradori  sing- 
ing at  the  Assize  Meetings  ;  "  "  On  Saint  Bartholomew's  Day" 
(a  tremendous  denunciation  of  Popery,  and  a  solemn  warning 
to  the  people  of  England  to  rail}'  against  emancipathig  the 
Roman  Catholics),  &c.,  &c. — all  which  masterpieces,  poor 
Mrs.  Pendennis  kept  along  with  his  first  socks,  the  first  cutting 
of  his  hair,  his  bottle,  and  other  interesting  relics  of  his  infancy. 
He  used  to  gallop  Rebecca  over  the  neighboring  Dumpling 
Downs,  or  into  the  county  town,  which,  if  you  please,  we  shall 
call  Chatteris,  spouting  his  own  poems,  and  filled  with  quite  a 
B3i-onic  aflflatus  as  he  thought. 

His  genius  at  this  time  was  of  a  decidedh'  gloomy  cast.  He 
brought  his  mother  a  tragedy,  at  which,  though  he  killed  six- 
teen people  before  the  second  act,  Helen  laughed  so,  that  he 
thrust  the  masterpiece  into  the  fire  in  a  pet.  He  projected  an 
epic  poem  in  blank  verse,  "  Cortez,  or  the  Conqueror  of  Mex- 
ico, and  the  Inca's  Daughter."  He  wrote  part  of  "  Seneca,  or 
the  Fatal   Bath,"  and  "Ariadne  in  Naxos ;"  classical  pieces. 

2 


26  PENDENNIS. 

with  choruses  and  strophes  and  antistrophes,  which  sadly  puz- 
zled Mrs.  Pendennis  ;  and  began  a  "  History-  of  the  Jesuits," 
in  which  he  lashed  that  Order  with  tremendous  severit}'.  His 
loyalty  did  his  mother's  heart  good  to  witness.  He  was  a 
staunch,  unflinching  Church-and-King  man  in  those  daj-s  ;  and 
at  the  election,  when  Sir  Giles  Beanfield  stood  on  the  Blue 
interest,  against  Lord  Trehawk,  Lord  E3Tie's  son,  a  Whig  and 
a  friend  of  Popery,  Arthur  Pendennis,  with  an  immense  bow 
for  himself,  which  his  mother  made,  and  with  a  blue  ribbon  for 
Rebecca,  rode  alongside  of  the  Reverend  Doctor  Portman,  on 
his  gray  mare  Dowd}',  and  at  the  head  of  the  Clavering  voters, 
whom  the  Doctor  brought  up  to  plump  for  the  Protestant 
Champion. 

On  that  da}'  Pen  made  his  first  speech  at  the  Blue  Hotel : 
and  also,  it  appeal's,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  —  took  a  little 
more  wine  than  was  good  for  him.  Mere}' !  what  a  scene  it 
was  at  Fairoaks,  when  he  rode  back  at  ever  so  much  o'clock  at 
night.  What  moving  about  of  lanterns  in  the  court-yard  and 
stables,  though  the  moon  was  shining  out ;  what  a  gathering  of 
servants,  as  Pen  came  home,  clattering  over  the  bridge  and  up 
the  stable-j'ard,  with  half  a  score  of  the  Clavering  voters  3'elling 
after  him  the  Blue  song  of  the  election. 

He  wanted  them  all  to  come  in  and  have  some  wine  —  some 
ver}'  good  Madeira  —  some  capital  Madeira  —  John,  go  and  get 
some  Madeira  —  and  there  is  no  knowing  what  the  farmers 
would  have  done,  had  not  Madam  Pendennis  made  her  appear- 
ance in  a  white  wrapper,  with  a  candle  —  and  scared  those 
zealous  Blues  so  by  the  sight  of  her  pale  handsome  face,  that 
they  touched  their  hats  and  rode  off. 

Besides  these  amusements  and  occupations  in  which  Mr. 
Pen  indulged,  there  was  one  which  forms  the  main  business  and 
pleasure  of  youth,  if  the  poets  tell  us  aright,  whom  Pen  was 
always  studj'ing ;  and  which,  ladies,  you  have  right!}'  guessed 
to  be  that  of  Love.  Pen  sighed  for  it  first  in  secret,  and,  like 
the  love-sick  swain  in  Ovid,  opened  his  breast  and  said,  "  Aura, 
veni."  What  generous  3-outh  is  there  that  has  not  courted  some 
such  windy  mistress  in  his  time  ? 

Yes,  Pen  began  to  feel  the  necessit}'  of  a  first  love  —  of  a  con- 
suming passion  —  of  an  object  on  which  he  could  concentrate 
all  those  vague  floating  fancies  under  which  he  sweetly  suffered 
—  of  a  30ung  lady  to  whom  he  could  really  make  verses,  and 
whom  he  could  set  up  and  adore,  in  place  of  those  unsubstan- 
tial lanthes  and  Zuleikas  to  whom  he  addressed  the  outpour- 
ings of  his  gushing  muse.     He  read  his  favorite  poems  over 


PENDENNIS.  27 

and  over  again,  he  called  upon  Alma  Venus  the  delight  of  gods 
and  men,  he  translated  Anacreon's  odes,  and  picked  out  pas- 
sages suitable  to  his  complaint  from  Waller,  Dry  den.  Prior,  and 
the  lilie.  Smirke  and  he  were  never  weary,  in  their  interviews, 
of  discoursing  about  love.  The  faithless  tutor  entertained  him 
with  sentimental  conversations  in  place  of  lectures  on  algebra 
and  Greek  ;  for  Smirke  was  in  love  too.  Who  could  help  it, 
being  in  dail}-  intercourse  with  such  a  woman?  Smirke  was 
madly  in  love  (as  far  as  such  a  mild  flame  as  Mr.  Smirke's  may 
be  called  madness)  with  Mrs.  Pendennis.  That  honest  lady, 
sitting  down  below  stairs  teaching  little  Laura  to  play  the 
piano,  or  devising  flannel  petticoats  for  the  poor  round  about 
her,  or  otherwise  busied  with  the  calm  routhie  of  her  modest 
and  spotless  Christian  life,  was  little  aware  what  storms  were 
brewing  in  two  bosoms  up  stairs  in  the  study  —  in  Pen's  as  he 
sat  in  his  shooting-jacket,  with  his  elbows  on  the  green  study- 
table,  and  his  hands  clutching  his  curly  brown  hair.  Homer 
under  his  nose,  —  and  in  worthy  Mr.  Smirke's,  with  whom  he 
was  reading.  Here  they  w^ould  talk  about  Helen  and  Andro- 
mache. "  Andromache's  like  my  mother,"  Pen  used  to  avouch  ; 
'•'  but  I  sa}-,  Smirke,  by  Jove  I'd  cut  off  my  nose  to  see  Helen ;  " 
and  he  would  spout  certain  favorite  lines  which  the  reader  will 
find  in  their  proper  place  in  the  third  book.  He  drew  portraits 
of  her  —  they  are  extant  still  —  with  straight  noses  and  enor- 
mous e3'es,  and  ''  Arthur  Pendennis  delineavit  et  pinxit "  gal- 
lantly written  underneath. 

As  for  Mr.  Smirke  he  naturally  preferred  Andromache. 
And  in  consequence  he  was  uncommonly  kind  to  Pen.  He 
gave  him  his  Elzevir  Horace,  of  which  the  boy  was  fond,  and 
his  little  Greek  Testament  which  his  own  mamma  at  Clapham 
had  purchased  and  presented  to  him.  He  bouglit  liim  a  silver 
pencil  case  ;  and  in  the  matter  of  learning  let  him  do  just  as 
much  or  as  little  as  ever  he  pleased.  He  alwajs  seemed  to  be 
on  the  point  of  unbosoming  himself  to  Pen  :  nay,  he  confessed 
to  the  latter  that  he  had  a  —  an  attachment,  an  ardently  cher- 
ished attachment,  about  which  Pendennis  longed  to  hear,  and 
said,  "Tell  us,  old  chap,  is  she  handsome?  has  she  got  bhie 
eyes  or  black  ?  "  But  Doctor  Portman's  curate,  heaving  a  gentle 
sigh,  cast  up  his  eyes  to  the  ceiling,  and  begged  Pen  faintly  to 
change  the  conversation.  Poor  Smirke  !  He  invited  Pen  to 
dine  at  his  lodgings  over  Madame  Frisby's,  the  milliner's,  in 
Clavering,  and  once  when  it  was  raining,  and  Mrs.  Pendennis, 
who  had  driven  in  her  pou3-chaise  into  Clavering  with  respect 
to  some  arraugemeuts.  about  leaving  off  mourning  probably, 


28  PENDENNIS. 

was  prevailed  upon  to  enter  the  curate's  apartments,  he  sen* 
for  pound-cakes  instantly.  The  sofa  on  whicli  she  sat  became 
sacred  to  him  from  that  day :  and  he  kept  llowers  in  the  glass 
which  she  drank  from  cA'er  after. 

As  Mrs.  Pendennis  was  never  tired  of  hearing  the  praises 
of  her  son,  we  ma}^  be  certain  that  this  rogue  of  a  tutor  neg- 
lected no  opportunity  of  conversing  with  her  upon  the  subject. 
It  might  be  a  little  tedious  to  him  to  hear  tlie  stories  about 
Pen's  generosity,  about  his  braver}'  in  figliting  the  big  naught}' 
bo}',  about  his  fun  and  jokes,  about  his  prodigious  skill  in  Latin, 
music,  riding,  &c.  —  but  what  price  would  he  not  pa}^  to  be  in 
her  company-?  and  the  widow,  after  these  conversations,  thought 
Mr.  Smirke  a  ver}-  pleasing  and  weU-informed  man.  As  for 
her  son,  she  had  not  settled  in  her  mind,  whether  he  was  to 
be  Senior  AVrangler  and  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  or  Double 
First  Class  at  Oxford,  and  Lord  Chancellor.  That  all  England 
did  not  possess  his  peer,  was  a  fact  about  which  there  was,  in 
her  mind,  no  manner  of  question. 

A  simple  person,  of  inexpensive  habits,  she  began  forthwith 
to  save,  and,  perhaps,  to  be  a  little  parsimonious,  in  favor  of 
her  boy.  There  were  no  entertainments,  of  course,  at  Fairoaks, 
during  the  year  of  her  weeds.  Nor,  indeed,  did  the  Doctor's 
silver  dish-covers,  of  which  he  was  so  proud,  and  which  were 
flourished  all  over  with  the  arms  of  the  Pendennises,  and  sur- 
mounted with  their  crest,  come  out  of  the  plate-chest  again  for 
long,  long  years.  The  household  was  diminished,  and  its  ex- 
penses curtailed.  There  was  a  very  blank  anchorite  rej^ast 
when  Pen  dined  from  home :  and  he  himself  headed  the  remon- 
strance from  the  kitchen  regarding  the  deteriorated  qualit}'  of 
the  Fairoaks  beer.  She  was  becoming  miserh'  for  Pen.  In- 
deed, who  ever  accused  women  of  being  just?  The}' are  always 
sacrificing  themselves  or  somebody  for  somebody  else's  sake. 

There  happened  to  be  no  young  woman  in  the  small  circle 
of  friends  who  were  in  the  widow's  intimacy  whom  Pendennis 
could  by  any  possibility  gratify  by  endowing  her  with  the  inesti- 
mable treasure  of  a  heart  which  he  was  longing  to  give  away. 
Some  young  fellows  in  this  predicament  bestow  their  young 
affections  upon  Dolly,  the  dair}'maid,  or  cast  the  eyes  of  ten- 
derness upon  Molly,  the  l)lacksmith's  daughter.  Pen  thought 
a  Pendennis  much  too  grand  a  personage  to  stoop  so  low.  He 
was  too  high-minded  for  a  vulgar  intrigue,  and  at  the  idea  of  a 
seduction,  had  he  ever  entertained  it,  his  heart  would  have  re- 
volted as  from  the  notion  of  any  act  of  baseness  or  dislionor. 
Miss  Mira  Portman  was  too  old,  too  large,  and  too  fond  of 


PENDENNIS.  29 

reading  ''  Kollin's  Ancient  History."  The  Miss  Boardbacks, 
Admiral  Boardback's  daughters  of  St.  Vincent's,  or  Fourth 
of  June  House,  as  it  was  called),  disgusted  Pen  with  the 
London  airs  which  they  brought  into  the  country.  Captain 
Glanders's  (H".  P.,  50th  Dragoon  Guards)  three  girls  were  in 
brown-holland  pinafores  as  yet,  with  the  ends  of  their  hair- 
plaits  tied  up  in  diity  pink  ribbon.  Not  having  acquired  the 
art  of  dancing,  the  youth  avoided  such  chances  as  he  might 
have  had  o^  meeting  with  the  fair  sex  at  the  Chatteris  Assem- 
blies ;  in  fine,  he  was  not  in  love,  because  there  was  nobod}^  at 
hand  to  fall  in  love  with.  And  the  young  monke}'  used  to  ride 
out,  da}'  after  day,  in  quest  of  Dulcinea ;  and  peep  into  the 
pony-chaises  and  gentlefolks'  carriages,  as  they  drove  along 
the  broad  turnpike  roads,  with  a  heart  beating  within  him,  and 
a  secret  tremor  and  hope  that  she  might  be  in  that  3'ellow  post- 
chaise  coming  swinging  up  the  hill,  or  one  of  those  three  girls 
in  beaver  bonnets  in  the  back  seat  of  the  double  gig,  which  the 
fat  old  gentleman  in  black  was  driving,  at  four  miles  an  hour. 
The  post-chaise  contained  a  snuffy  old  dowager  of  seventy,  witli 
u  maid,  her  contemporary.  The  three  girls  in  the  beaver  bon- 
nets were  no  handsomer  than  the  turnips  that  skirted  the  road- 
side. Do  as  he  might,  and  ride  where  he  would,  the  fair}' 
princess  whom  he  was  to  rescue  and  win,  had  not  yet  appeared 
to  honest  Pen. 

Upon  these  points  he  did  not  discourse  to  his  mother.  He 
had  a  world  of  his  own.  What  ardent,  imaginative  soul  has 
not  a  secret  pleasure-place  in  which  it  disports  ?  Let  no  clumsy 
prying  or  dull  meddling  of  ours  tiy  to  disturb  it  in  our  children. 
Actffion  was  a  brute  for  wanting  to  push  in  where  Diana  was 
bathing.  Leave  him  occasionally  alone,  my  good  madam,  if 
you  have  a  poet  for  a  child.  Even  your  admirable  advice  may 
be  a  bore  sometimes.  Yonder  little  child  may  have  thoughts 
too  deep  even  for  your  great  mind,  and  fancies  so  coy  and 
timid  that  they  will  not  bare  themselves  when  your  ladyship 
sits  by. 

Helen  Pendennis  by  the  force  of  sheer  love  divined  a  great 
number  of  her  son's  secrets.  But  she  kept  these  things  in  her 
heart  (if  we  may  so  speak),  and  did  not  speak  of  them.  Be- 
sides, she  had  made  up  lier  mind  that  he  was  to  marry  little 
Laura :  she  would  he  eighteen  when  Pen  was  six-and-twenty  ; 
and  had  finished  his  college  career ;  and  had  made  his  grand 
tour ;  and  was  settled  either  in  London,  astonishing  all  the 
metropolis  by  his  learning  and  eloquence  at  the  bar,  or  better 
still  iu  a  sweet  country  parsonage  surrounded  with  hollyhocks 


30  PENDENNIS. 

and  roses,  close  to  a  delightful  romantic  ivj'-covered  church, 
from  the  pulpit  of  which  Pen  would  utter  the  most  beautiful 
sermons  ever  preached. 

While  these  natural  sentiments  were  waging  war  and  trouble 
in  honest  Pen's  bosom,  it  chanced  one  day  that  he  rode  into 
Chatteris  for  the  purpose  of  carrying  to  the  County  Chronicle  a 
tremendous  and  thrilling  poem  for  the  next  week's  paper  ;  and 
putting  up  his  horse  according  to  custom,  at  the  stables  of  the 
George  Hotel  there,  he  fell  in  with  an  old  acquaintance.  A 
grand  black  tandem,  with  scarlet  wheels,  came  rattling  into  the 
inn  yard,  as  Pen  stood  there  in  converse  with  the  ostler  about 
Rebecca;  and  the  voice  of  the  driver  called  out,  ''Halloo, 
Pendennis,  is  that^ou?"  in  a  loud  patronizing  manner.  Pen 
had  some  difficulty  in  recognizing,  under  the  broad-brimmed 
hat  and  the  vast  great-coats  and  neck-cloths,  with  which  the 
new  comer  was  habited,  the  person  and  figure  of  his  quondam 
schoolfellow,  Mr.  Foker. 

A  3'ear's  absence  had  made  no  small  difference  in  that  gen- 
tleman. A  youth  who  had  been  deservedl}-  whipped  a  few 
months  previously,  and  who  spent  his  pocket-money  on  tarts 
and  hardbake,  now  appeared  before  Pen  in  one  of  those  cos- 
tumes to  which  the  public  consent,  which  I  take  to  be  quite 
as  influential  in  this  respect  as  "Johnson's  Dictionary', "  has 
awarded  the  title  of  "  Swell."  He  had  a  bull-dog  between  liis 
legs,  and  in  his  scarlet  shawl  neck-cloth,  was  a  pin  representing 
another  bull-dog  in  gold :  he  woi-e  a  fur  waistcoat  laced  over 
with  gold  chains ;  a  green  cut-away  coat  with  basket  buttons, 
and  a  white  upper-coat  ornamented  with  cheese-plate  buttons, 
on  each  of  which  was  engraved  some  stirring  incident  of  the 
road  or  the  chase ;  all  of  which  ornaments  set  oft*  this  young 
fellow's  figure  to  such  advantage,  that  3'ou  would  hesitate  to 
say  which  character  in  life  he  most  resembled,  and  whether  he 
was  a  boxer  en  goguette,  or  a  coachman  in  his  gala  suit. 

"Left  that  place  for  good,  Pendennis?"  Mr.  Foker  said, 
descending  from  his  landau  and  giving  Pendennis  a  finger. 

"  Yes,  this  year  or  more,"  Pen  said. 

"  Beastly  old  hole,"  Mr.  Foker  remarked.  "  Hate  it.  Hate 
the  Doctor :  hate.  Towzer,  the  second  master ;  hate  everybody 
there.     Not  a  fit  place  for  a  gentleman." 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Pen,  with  an  air  of  the  utmost  conse- 
quence. 

"By  gad,  sir,  I  sometimes  dream,  now,  that  the  Doctor's 
walking  into  me,"   Foker  continued  (and  Pen  smiled  as  he 


PENDENNIS.  31 

thought  that  he  himself  had  likewise  fearful  dreams  of  this 
nature).  "When  I  think  of  the  diet  there,  by  gad,  sir,  I 
wonder  how  I  stood  it.  Mangy  mutton,  brutal  beet's  pudding 
on  Thursdays  and  Sundays,  and  that  fit  to  poison  3'ou.  Just 
look  at  my  leader  —  did  3'ou  ever  see  a  prettier  animal  ? 
Drove  over  from  Ba3'mouth.  Came  the  nine  mile  in  two-and- 
forty  minutes.     Not  bad  going,  sir." 

"  Are  you  stoping  at  Baymouth,  Foker?"  Pendennis  asked. 

"  I'm  coaching  there,"  said  the  other  with  a  nod. 

"  What?"  asked  Pen,  and  in  a  tone  of  such  wonder,  that 
Foker  burst  out  laughing,  and  said,  "He  was  blowed  if  he 
didn't  think  Pen  was  such  a  flat  as  not  to  know  what  coaching 
meant." 

"I'm  come  down  with  a  coach  from  Oxbridge.  A  tutor, 
don't  you  see,  old  boy?  He's  coaching  me,  and  some  other 
men,  for  the  little  go.  Me  and  Spavin  have  the  drag  between 
us.  And  I  thought  I'd  just  tool  over,  and  go  to  the  play. 
Did  you  ever  see  Rowkins  do  the  hornpipe  ?  "  and  Mr.  Foker 
began  to  perform  some  steps  of  that  popular  dance  in  the  inn 
3'ard,  looking  round  for  the  sympathy  of  his  groom,  and  the 
stable  men. 

Pen  thought  he  would  like  to  go  to  the  play  too  :  and  could 
ride  home  afterwards,  as  there  was  a  moonlight.  So  he  ac- 
cepted Foker's  invitation  to  dinner,  and  the  young  men  en- 
tered the  inn  together,  where  Mr.  Foker  stopped  at  the  bar, 
and  called  upon  Miss  Rummer,  the  landladj's  fair  daughter, 
who  presided  there,  to  give  him  a  glass  of  "  his  mixture." 

Pen  and  his  family  had  been  known  at  the  George  ever 
since  they  came  into  the  county ;  and  Mr.  Pendennis's  carriage 
and  horses  always  put  up  there  when  he  paid  a  visit  to  the 
county  town.  The  landlady  di'opped  the  heir  of  Fairoaks  a 
very  respectful  curtsy,  and  complimented  him  upon  his  growth 
and  manly  appearance,  and  asked  news  of  the  family  at  Fair- 
oaks,  and  of  Dr.  Portman  and  the  Clavering  people,  to  all  of 
which  questions  the  young  gentleman  answered  with  much 
affabilit}'.  But  he  spoke  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Rummer  with  that 
sort  of  good  nature  with  which  a  3'oung  Prince  addresses  his 
father's  subjects;  never  dreaming  that  those  "bonnes  gens" 
were  his  equals  in  life. 

Mr.  Foker's  behavior  was  quite  different.  He  inquired  for 
Rummer  and  the  cold  in  his  nose,  told  Mrs.  Rummer  a  riddle, 
asked  Miss  Rummer  wlien  she  would  be  ready  to  marry  him, 
and  paid  his  compliments  to  Miss  Brett,  the  other  young  lady 
in  the  bar,  all  in  a  minute  of  time,  and  with  a  liveliness  and 


32  PENDENNIS. 

facetiousness  which  set  all  these  ladies  in  a  giggle ;  and  he 
gave  a  cluck,  expressive  of  great  satisfaction  as  he  tossed  oflC 
his  mixture  which  Miss  Rummer  prepared  and  handed  to  him. 

"  Have  a  drop,"  said  he  to  Pen.  "  Give  the  young  one  a 
glass,  R.,  and  score  it  up  to  yours  trul^'." 

Poor  Pen  took  a  glass,  and  everybody  laughed  at  the  face 
which  he  made  as  he  put  it  down  —  Gin,  bitters,  and  some 
other  cordial,  was  the  compound  with  which  Mr.  Foker  was  so 
'delighted  as  to  call  it  by  the  name  of  Foker's  own.  As  Pen 
choked,  sputtered,  and  made  faces,  the  other  took  occasion  to 
remark  to  Mr.  Rummer  that  the  3'oung  fellow  was  green,  very 
green,  but  that  he  would  soon  form  him ;  and  then  they  pro- 
ceeded to  order  dinner  —  which  Mr.  Foker  determined  should 
consist  of  turtle  and  venison  ;  cautioning  the  landlady  to  be 
very  particular  about  icing  the  wine. 

Then  Messrs.  Foker  and  Pen  strolled  down  the  High  Street 
together  —  the  former  having  a  cigar  in  his  mouth,  which  he 
had  drawn  out  of  a  case  almost  as  big  as  a  portmanteau.  He 
went  in  to  replenish  it  at  Mr.  Lewis's,  and  talked  to  that 
gentleman  for  a  while,  sitting  down  on  the  counter :  he  then 
looked  in  at  th«  fruiterer's,  to  see  the  pretty  girl  there  :  then 
the}'  passed  the  County  Chronicle  office,  for  which  Pen  had  his 
packet  read3%  in  the  shape  of  "  Lines  to  Thyrza,"  but  poor 
Pen  did  not  like  to  put  the  letter  into  the  editor's  box  while 
walking  in  compan}'  with  such  a  fine  gentleman  as  Mr.  Foker. 
They  met  heavy  dragoons  of  the  regiment  always  quartered  at 
Chatteris  ;  and  stopped  and  talked  about  the  Bavmouth  balls, 
and  what  a  pretty  girl  was  Miss  Brown,  and  what  a  dem  fine 
woman  Mrs.  Jones  was.  It  was  in  vain  that  Pen  recalled  to 
his  own  mind  how  stupid  Foker  used  to  be  at  school  —  how  he 
could  scarcely  read,  how  he  was  not  cleanly  in  his  person,  and 
notorious  for  his  blunders  and  dulness.  Mr.  Foker  was  not 
much  more  refined  now  than  in  his  school  cla^s  :  and  yet  Pen 
felt  a  secret  pride  in  strutting  down  High  Street  with  a  young 
fellow  who  owned  tandems,  talked  to  officers,  and  ordered 
turtle  and  champagne  for  dinner.  He  listened,  and  with  re- 
spect too,  to  Mr.  Foker's  accounts  of  what  the  men  did  at  the 
University  of  which  Mr.  F.  was  an  ornament,  and  encountered 
a  long  series  of  stories  about  boat-racing,  bumping.  College 
grass-plats,  and  milk-punch  —  and  began  to  wish  to  go  up 
himself  to  College  to  a  place  where  there  were  such  manl}^ 
pleasures  and  enjoyments.  Farmer  Gurnett,  who  lives  close 
by  Fairoaks,  riding  b}'  at  tliis  minute  and  touching  his  hat  to 
Pen,  the  latter  stopped  him,  and  sent  a  message  to  his  mother 


PENDENNIS.  33 

to  say  that  hfe  had  met  with  an  old  schoolfellow,  and  should 
dine  in  Chatteris. 

The  two  young  gentlemen  continued  their  walk,  and  were 
passing  round  the  Cathedral  Yard,  where  they  could  hear  the 
music  of  the  afternoon  service  (a  music  which  always  exceed- 
ingly affected  Pen),  but  whither  INIr.  Foker  came  for  the  pur- 
pose of  inspecting  the  nurser}-  maids  who  frequent  the  Elms 
Walk  there,  and  here  they  strolled  until  with  a  final  burst  of 
music  the  small  congregation  was  pla3ed  out. 

Old  Doctor  Portman  was  one  of  the  few  who  came  from  the 
venerable  gate.  Sppng  Pen,  he  came  and  shook  him  b}'  the 
hand,  and  eyed  with  wonder  Pen's  friend,  from  whose  mouth 
and  cigar  clouds  of  fragrance  issued,  which  curled  round  the 
Doctor's  honest  face  and  shovel  hat. 

"  An  old  schoolfellow  of  mine,  Mr.  Foker,"  said  Pen.  The 
Doctor  said  "H'm":  and  scowled  at  the  cigar.  He  did  not 
mind  a  pipe  in  his  study,  but  the  cigar  was  an  abomination  to 
the  worthy  gentleman. 

'•  I  came  up  on  Bishop's  business,"  the  Doctor  said.  "  We'll 
ride  home,  Arthur,  if  you  like?" 

''  I  —  I'm  engaged  to  m}'  friend  here,"  Pen  answered. 

"  You  had  better  come  home  with  me,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"His  mother  knows  he's  out,  sir,"  Mr.  Foker  remarked: 
''  don't  she,  Pendennis?  " 

"  But  that  does  not  prove  that  he  had  not  better  come 
home  with  me,"  the  Doctor  growled,  and  he  walked  off  with 
great  dignity- . 

'•  Old  boy  don't  like  the  weed,  I  suppose,"  Foker  said. 
"Ha!  who's  here?  —  here's  the  General,  and  Bingley,  the 
manager.     How  do,  Cos  ?     How  do,  Bingley  ?  " 

"  How  does  my  worthy  and  gallant  young  Foker?"  said  the 
gentleman  addi-essed  as  the  General ;  and  who  wore  a  shabbj' 
military  cape  with  a  mangy  collar,  and  a  hat  cocked  very  much 
over  one  eye. 

"  Trust  30U  are  very  well,  m}'  ver}'  dear  sir,"  said  the  other 
gentleman,  "and  that  the  Theatre  Royal  will  have  the  honor 
of  your  patronage  to-night.  We  perform  '  The  Stranger,'  in 
which  your  humble  servant  will  —  " 

"Can't  stand  you  in  tights  and  Hessians,  Bingley,"  young 
Mr.  Foker  said.  On  which  the  General,  with  the  Irish  accent, 
said,  "  But  I  think  ye'll  like  Miss  Fotheringay,  in  Mrs.  Haller, 
or  me  name's  not  Jack  Costigan." 

Pen  looked  at  these  individuals  with  the  greatest  interest. 
He  had  never  seen  an  actor  before  ;  and  he  saw  Dr.  Portman's 


34  PENDENNIS. 

red  face  looking  over  the  Doctor's  shoulder,  as  he  retreated 
from  the  Cathedral  Yard,  evidentl}'  quite  dissatisfied  with  the 
acquaintances  into  whose  hands  Pen  had  fallen. 

Perhaps  it  would  have  been  much  better  for  him  had  he 
taken  the  parson's  advice  and  company  home.  But  which  of 
us  knows  his  fate? 


CHAPTER  IV. 

MRS.    HALLER. 

Having  returned  to  the  George,  Mr.  Foker  and  his  guest 
sat  down  to  a  handsome  repast  in  the  coffee-room  ;  where  Mr. 
Rummer  brought  in  the  first  dish,  and  bowed  as  gravel}'  as  if 
he  was  waiting  upon  the  Lord-Lieutenant  of  the  count}'.  Pen 
could  not  but  respect  Foker's  connoisseurship  as  he  pronounced 
the  champagne  to  be  condemned  gooseberry',  and  winked  at  the 
port  with  one  e^'e.  The  latter  he  declared  to  be  of  the  right 
sort ;  and  told  the  waiters,  there  was  no  way  of  humbugging 
him.  All  these  attendants  he  knew  by  their  Christian  names, 
and  showed  a  great  interest  in  their  families  ;  and  as  the  Lon- 
don coaches  drove  up,  which  in  those  early  da^'S  used  to  set  ott 
from  the  George,  Mr.  Foker  flung  the  coffee-room  window  open, 
and  called  the  guards  and  coachmen  by  their  Christian  names, 
too,  asking  about  their  respective  families,  and  imitating  with 
great  liveliness  and  accuracy  the  tooting  of  the  horns  as  Jem 
the  ostler  whipped  the  horses'  cloths  off,  and  the  carriages  drove 
gayly  away. 

"  A  bottle  of  sherry,  a  bottle  of  sham,  a  bottle  of  port  and 
a  shass  caff}',  it  ain't  so  bad,  ha}'.  Pen?  "  Foker  said,  and  pro- 
nounced, after  all  these  delicacies  and  a  quantity  of  nuts  and 
fruit  had  been  despatched,  that  it  was  time  to  "  toddle."  Pen 
sprang  up  with  very  bright  eyes,  and  a  flushed  face  ;  and  they 
moved  off  towards  the  theatre,  where  they  paid  their  money 
to  the  wheezy  old  lady  slumbering  in  the  money-taker's  box. 
"  Mrs.  Dropsicum,  Bingley's  mother-in-law,  great  in  Lady 
Macbeth,"  Foker  said  to  his  companion.  Foker  knew  her, 
too. 

They  had  almost  their  choice  of  places  in  the  boxes  of  the  thea- 
tre, which  was  no  better  filled  than  country  theatres  usually  are 
in  spite  of  the  "  universal  burst  of  attraction  and  galvanic  thrills 


PENDENNIS.  35 

of  delight  "  advertised  by  Bingley  in  the  play-bills.  A  scoi-e  or 
so  of  people  dotted  the  pit-benches,  a  few  more  kept  a  kicking 
and  whistling  in  the  galleries,  and  a  dozen  others,  who  came  in 
with  free  admissions,  were  in  the  boxes  where  our  young  gentle- 
men sat.  Lieutenant  Rodgers  and  Podgers,  and  young  Cornet 
Tidmus,  of  the  Dragoons,  occupied  a  private  box.  The  per- 
formers acted  to  them,  and  these  gentlemen  seemed  to  hold 
conversations  with  the  players  when  not  engaged  in  the  dialogue, 
and  applauded  them  b}-  name  loudl}'. 

Bingley  the  manager,  who  assumed  all  the  chief  tragic  and 
comic  parts  except  when  he  modestly  retreated  to  make  wa}-  for 
the  London  stars,  who  came  down  occasionally  to  Chatteris  ; 
was  great  in  the  character  of  the  "  Stranger."  He  was  attired 
in  the  tight  pantaloons  and  Hessian  boots  which  the  stage 
legend  has  given  to  that  injured  man,  with  a  large  cloak  and 
beaver  and  a  hearse-feather  in  it  drooping  over  his  raddled  old 
face,  and  onlv  partially  concealing  his  great  buckled  brown  wig. 
He  had  the  stage-jeweller}-  on  too,  of  which  he  selected  the 
largest  and  most  shiny  rings  for  himself,  and  allowed  his  little 
finger  to  quiver  out  of  his  cloak  with  a  sham  diamond  ring  cov- 
ering the  first  joint  of  the  finger  and  twiddling  in  the  faces  of 
the  pit.  Bingley  made  it  a  favor  to  the  3-oung  men  of  his  com- 
pan}-  to  go  on  in  light  comedy  parts  with  that  ring.  They 
flattered  him  by  asking  its  history.  The  stage  has  its  tradi- 
tional jewels,  as  the  Crown  and  all  great  families  have.  This 
had  belonged  to  George  Frederick  Cooke,  who  had  had  it  from 
Mr.  Quin.  who  may  have  bought  it  for  a  shilling.  Bingle}- 
fancied  the  world  was  fascinated  with  its  glitter. 

He  was  reading  out  of  the  stage-book  —  that  wonderful 
stage-book  —  which  is  not  bound  like  any  other  book  in  the 
world,  but  is  rouged  and  tawdry  like  the  hero  or  heroine  who 
holds  it ;  and  who  holds  it  as  people  never  do  hold  books  :  and 
points  with  his  finger  to  a  passage,  and  wags  his  head  ominously 
at  the  audience,  and  then  lifts  up  e3-es  and  finger  to  the  ceiling,, 
professing  to  derive  some  intense  consolation  from  the  work 
between  which  and  heaven  there  is  a  strong  aflinit}'. 

As  soon  as  the  Stranger  saw  the  .young  men,  he  acted  at 
them  ;  eying  them  solemnly  over  his  gilt  volume  as  he  lay  on 
the  stage-bank  showing  his  hand,  his  ring,  and  his  Hessians. 
He  calculated  the  effect  that  every  one  of  these  ornaments 
would  produce  upon  his  victims  :  he  was  detei-mined  to  fasci- 
nate them,  for  he  knew  they  had  paid  their  money  ;  and  he  snw 
their  families  coming  in  from  the  country  and  filling  the  cane 
chairs  in  his  boxes. 


36  PENDENNIS. 

As  he  lay  on  the  bank  reading,  his  servant,  Francis,  made 
remarks  upon  his  master. 

"Again  reading,"  said  Francis,  "thus  it  is,  from  morn  to 
night.  To  him  nature  has  no  beauty  —  life  no  charm.  For 
three  years  I  have  never  seen  him  smile  "  (the  gloom  of  Bing- 
ley's  face  was  fearful  to  witness  during  these  comments  of  the 
faithful  domestic).  "Nothing  diverts  him.  Oh,  if  he  would 
but  attach  himself  to  an^^  living  thing,  were  it  an  animal  —  for 
something  man  must  love." 

[Enter  Tobias  {Goll)  from  the  hut'].  He  cries,  "  Oh,  how 
refreshing,  after  seven  long  weeks,  to  feel  these  warm  sunbeams 
once  again.  Thanks,  bounteous  heaven,  for  the  J03'  I  taste  !  " 
He  presses  his  cap  between  his  hands,  looks  up  and  prays. 
The  Stranger  eyes  liim  attentively. 

Francis  to  the  Stranger.  ' '  This  old  man's  share  of  earthly 
happiness  can  be  but  little.  Yet  mark  how  grateful  he  is  for 
his  portion  of  it." 

Bingley.  "  Because  though  old,  he  is  but  a  child  in  the 
leading-string  of  hope."  (He  looks  steadily  at  Foker,  who, 
however,  continues  to  suck  the  top  of  his  stick  in  an  uncon- 
cerned manner.) 

Francis.     "  Hope  is  the  nurse  of  life." 

Bingley.     "  And  her  cradle —  is  the  grave." 

The  Stranger  uttered  this  with  the  moan  of  a  bassoon  in 
agony,  and  fixed  his  glance  on  Fendennis  so  steadily,  that  the 
poor  lad  was  quite  put  out  of  countenance.  He  thought  the 
whole  house  must  be  looking  at  him ;  and  cast  his  ej-es  down. 
As  soon  as  ever  he  raised  them  Bingiey's  were  at  him  again. 
All  through  the  scene  the  manager  played  at  him.  How 
relieved  the  lad  was  when  the  scene  ended,  and  Foker,  tapping 
with  his  cane,  cried  out  "Bravo,  Bingley  !  " 

"  Give  him  a  hand,  Fendennis  ;  you  know  every  chap  likes 
a  hand,"  Mr.  Foker  said  ;  and  the  good-natured  j^oung  gentle- 
man, and  Fendennis  laughing,  and  the  dragoons  in  the  opposite 
box,  began  clapping  hands  to  the  best  of  their  power. 

A  chamber  in  Wintersen  Castle  closed  over  Tobi*..''^  hut 
and  the  Stranger  and  his  boots  ;  and  servants  appeared  ^tis- 
tling  about  with  chairs  and  tables  —  "That's  Hicks  and  Miss 
Thackthwaite,"  whispered  Foker.  "Pretty  girl,  ain't  she, 
Fendennis?     But  stop  —  hurraj-  —  bravo!  here's  the  Fotherin- 

gay." 

The  pit  thrilled  and  thumped  its  umbrellas ;  a  volley  of 
applause  was  fired  from  the  gallery- :  the  Dragoon  ofl^cers  and 
Foker  clapped  their  hands  furiously  :  you  would  have  thought 


PENDENNIS.  3T 

the  house  was  full,  so  loud  were  their  plaudits.  The  red  face 
and  ragged  whiskers  of  Mr.  Costigan  were  seen  peering  from 
the  side-scene.  Pen's  e3-es  opened  wide  and  bright,  as  Mrs. 
Haller  entered  with  a  downcast  look,  then  rallying  at  the  sound 
of  the  applause,  swept  the  house  with  a  grateful  glance,  and, 
folding  her  hands  across  her  breast,  sank  down  in  a  magnifi- 
cent curts}-.  More  applause,  more  umbrellas  ;  Pen  this  time, 
flaming  with  wine  and  enthusiasm,  clapped  hands  and  sang 
'•Bravo"  louder  than  all.  Mrs.  Haller  saw  him,  and  every- 
body else,  and  old  Mr.  Bows,  the  little  first  fiddler  of  the 
orchesti'^  (which  was  this  night  increased  by  a  detachment  of 
the  baud  of  the  Dragoons,  b}-  the  kind  permission  of  Colonel 
Swallowtail),  looked  up  from  the  desk  where  he  was  perched, 
with  his  crutch  beside  him,  and  smiled  at  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
lad. 

Those  who  have  only  seen  Miss  Fotheringay  in  later  days, 
since  her  marriage  aud  introduction  into  London  life,  have  little 
idea  how  beautiful  a  creature  she  was  at  the  time  when  our 
friend  Pen  first  set  eyes  on  her.-  She  was  of  the  tallest  of 
women,  and  at  her  then  age  of  six-and-twenty  —  for  six-and- 
twenty  she  was,  though  she  vows  she  was  onlj' nineteen  —  in 
the  prime  and  fulness  of  her  beauty.  Her  forehead  was  vast, 
and  her  black  hair  waved  over  it  with  a  natural  ripple,  and  was 
confined  in  shining  and  voluminous  braids  at  tlie  back  of  a 
neck  such  as  you  see  on  the  shoulders  of  the  Louvre  Venus  — 
that  delight  of  gods  and  men.  Her  eyes,  when  she  lifted 
them  up  to  gaze  on  you,  and  ere  she  dropped  their  purple  deep- 
fringed  lids,  shone  with  tenderness  and  m3'stery  unfathomable. 
Love  and  Genius  seemed  to  look  out  from  them  and  then  retire 
coyly,  as  if  ashamed  to  have  been  seen  at  the  lattice.  Who 
could  have  had  such  a  commanding  brow  but  a  woman  of  high 
intellect?  She  never  laughed  (indeed  her  teeth  were  not  good), 
but  a  smile  of  endless  tenderness  and  sweetness  played  round 
her  beautiful  lips,  and  in  the  dimples  of  her  cheeks  and  her 
lovely  chin.  Her  nose  defied  description  in  those  daj^s.  Her 
ears  were  like  two  little  pearl  shells,  which  the  earrings  she  wore 
(though  the  handsomest  properties  in  the  theatre)  only  insulted. 
She  was  dressed  in  long  flowing  robes  of  black,  which  she  man- 
aged aud  swept  to  and  fro  with  wonderful  grace,  and  out  of  the 
folds  of  which  you  only  saw  her  sandals  occasionally  ;  they  were 
of  rather  a  large  size  ;  but  Pen  thought  them  as  ravishing  as  the 
.^Uppers  of  Cinderella.  But  it  was  her  band  and  arm  that  this 
magnificent  creature  most  excelled  in  and  somehow  you  could 
never   see   her   but    tlu-ougli    then'.      They   surrounded    her. 


5805 


38  PENDENNIS. 

When  she  folded  them  over  her  bosom  in  resignation ,  when 
she  dropped  them  in  mute  agony,  or  raised  them  in  superb 
command ;  when  in  sportive  gayety  her  hands  fluttered  and 
waved  before  her,  like,  —  what  shall  we  sa}-?  —  like  the  snowy 
doves  before  the  chariot  of  Venus  —  it  was  with  these  arms 
and  hands  that  she  beckoned,  repelled,  entreated,  embraced 
her  admirers  —  no  single  one,  for  she  was  armed  with  her  own 
virtue,  and  with  her  father's  valor,  whose  sword  would  have 
leapt  from  its  scabbard  at  an}'  insult  offered  to  his  child  —  but 
the  whole  house  ;  which  rose  to  her,  as  the  phrase  was,  as  she 
curtsied  and  bowed,  and  charmed  it. 

Thus  she  stood  for  a  minute  —  complete  and  beautiful  —  as 
Pen  stared  at  her.  "  I  say,  Pen,  isn't  she  a  stunner?"  asked 
Mr.  Foker. 

"  Hush  !  "  Pen  said.     "  She's  speaking." 

She  began  her  business  in  a  deep  sweet  voice.  Those  who 
know  the  play  of  the  "  Stranger,"  are  aware  that  the  remarks? 
made  b}^  the  various  characters  are  not  valuable  in  themselves, 
either  for  their  sound  sense,  their  novelty  of  obserA^ation,  or  their 
poetic  fanc}'. 

Nobody  ever  talked  so.  If  we  meet  idiots  in  life,  as  wilJ 
happen,  it  is  a  great  mercy  that  they  do  not  use  such  absurdly 
fine  words.  The  Stranger's  talk  is  sham,  like  the  book  he  reads r 
and  the  hair  he  wears,  and  the  bank  he  sits  on,  and  the  diamond 
ring  he  makes  pla}-  with  —  but,  in  the  midst  of  the  balderdash, 
there  runs  that  reality  of  Iqve,  children,  and  forgiveness  of  wrong, 
which  will  be  listened  to  wherever  it  is  preached,  and  sets  al! 
the  world  sympathizing. 

With  what  smothered  sorrow,  with  what  gushing  cathosy 
Mrs.  Haller  delivered  her  part !  At  first,  when  as  Count  Win- 
tersen's  housekeeper,  and  preparing  for  his  Excellency's  arrival, 
she  has  to  give  orders  about  the  beds  and  furniture,  and  the 
dinner,  &c.,  to  be  got  ready,  she  did  so  with  the  calm  agonv  of 
despair.  But  when  she  could  get  rid  of  the  stupid  servants,  and 
give  vent  to  her  feelings  to  the  pit  and  the  house,  she  overflowed 
to  each  individual  as  if  he  were  her  particular  confidant,  and  she 
was  crying  out  her  griefs  on  his  shoulder :  the  little  fiddler  in 
the  orchestra  (whom  she  did  not  seem  to  watch,  though  he  fol- 
lowed her  ceaselessly)  twitched,  twisted,  nodded,  pointed  about, 
and  when  she  came  to  the  favorite  passage  "  I  have  a  William, 
too,  if  he  be  stiU  alive  —  Ah,  yes,  if  he  be  still  alive.  His  little 
sisters,  too!  Why,  Fancy,  does  thou  rack  me  so?  "WTiy  dost 
thou  irnage  my  poor  children  fainting  in  sickness,  and  crj'ing 
to  —  to  —  their  mum-um-other,"  —  when  she  came  to  this  pas- 


PENDENNIS.  39 

sage  little  Bows  buried  his  face  in  his  blue  cotton  handkerchief, 
litter  crying  out  '•  Bravo." 

All  the  house  was  affected.  Foker,  for  his  part,  taking  out 
a  large  yellow  bandanna,  wept  piteously.  As  for  Pen,  he  was 
gone  too  far  for  that.  He  followed  the  woman  about  and  about 
—  when  she  was  off  the  stage,  it  and  the  house  were  blank  ;  the 
lights  and  the  red  officers  reeled  wildly  before  his  sight.  He 
watched  her  at  the  side-scene  —  where  she  stood  waiting  to  come 
on  the  stage,  and  where  her  father  took  off  her  shawl :  when  the 
reconciliation  arrived,  and  she  flung  herself  down  on  Mr.  Bing- 
ley's  shoulders,  whilst  the  children  clung  to  their  knees,  and  the 
Countess  (Mrs.  Bingley)  and  Baron  Steinforth  (performed  with 
great  liveliness  and  spirit  by  Garbetts)  —  while  the  rest  of  the 
characters  formed  a  group  round  them,  Pen's  hot  eyes  only  saw 
Fotheringay,  Fotheriugay.  The  curtain  fell  upon  him  like  a 
pall.  He  did  not  hear  a  word  of  what  Bingley  said,  who  came 
forward  to  announce  the  pla}'  for  the  next  evening,  and  who 
took  the  tumultuous  applause,  as  usual,  for  himself.  Pen  was 
not  even  distincth^  aware  that  the  house  was  calling  for  Miss 
Fotheringay,  nor  did  the  manager  seem  to  comprehend  that 
anybody  else  but  himself  had  caused  the  success  of  the  play. 
At  last  he  understood  it  —  stepped  back  with  a  grin,  and  pres- 
ently appeared  with  Mrs.  Haller  on  his  arm.  How  beautiful 
she  looked  !  Her  hair  had  fallen  down,  the  officers  threw  her 
flowers.  She  clutched  them  to  her  heart.  She  put  back  her 
hair,  and  smiled  all  round.  Her  eyes  met  Pen's.  Down  went 
the  curtain  again  :  and  she  was  gone.  Not  one  note  could  he 
hear  of  the  overture  which  the  brass  band  of  the  Dragoons  blew 
b}-  kind  permission  of  Colonel  Swallowtail. 

"She  is  a  crusher,  ain't  she  now?"  Mr.  Foker  asked  of  his 
companion.  ^    V 

Pen  did  not  know  exactly  what  Foker  said,  and  answered 
vaguel}'.  He  could  not  tell  the  other  what  he  felt ;  he  could 
not  have  spoken,  just  then,  to  any  mortal.  Besides,  Pendennis 
did  not  quite  know  what  he  felt  yet ;  it  was  something  over- 
whelming, maddening,  delicious ;  a  fever  of  ^ild  joy  and 
undeiined  longing. 

And  now  Rowkins  and  Miss  Thackthwaite  came  on  to  dance 
the  favorite  double  hornpipe,  and  Foker  abandoned  himself  to 
the  delights  of  this  ballet,  just  as  he  had  to  the  tears  of  the 
traged}'.  a  few  minutes  before.  Pen  did  not  care  for  it,  or 
indeed  think  about  the  dance,  except  to  remember  that 
that  woman  was  acting  with  her  in  the  scene  where  she 
lirst  came   in.      It  was  a   mist  before  his  e^'es.     At  the  end 


40  PENDENNIS. 

of  «(he  dance  he  looked  at  his  watch  and  said  it  was  timn)  fof 
him  to  go. 

"Hang  it,  stay  to  see  The  Bravo  of  the  Battle-Axe,"  Foker 
said.  "  Bingley's  splendid  in  it ;  he  wears  red  tights,  and  has 
to  carry  Mrs.  B.  over  the  Pine-bridge  of  the  Cataract,  onl}^ 
she's  too  heav}-.     It's  great  fun,  do  stop." 

Pen  looked  at  the  bill  with  one  lingering  fond  hope  thoit 
Miss  Fotheringay's  name  might  be  hidden,  somewhere,  in  the 
list  of  the  actors  of  the  after-piece,  but  there  was  no  such  name. 
Go  he  must.  He  had  a  long  ride  home.  He  squeezed  Foker's 
hand.  He  was  choking  to  speak,  but  he  couldn't.  He  quitted 
the  theatre  and  walked  franticall}'  about  the  town,  he  knew  not 
how  long  ;  then  he  mounted  at  the  George  and  rode  homewards, 
and  Clavering  clock  sang  out  one  as  he  came  into  the  yard  at 
Fairoaks.  The  lady  of  the  house  might  have  been  awake,  but 
she  onl}^  heard  him  from  the  passage  outside  his  room  as  he 
dashed  into  bed  and  pulled  the  clothes  over  his  head. 

Pen  had  not  been  in  the  habit  of  passing  wakeful  nights,  so 
he  at  once  fell  off  into  a  sound  sleep.  Even  in  later  days,  and 
with  a  great  deal  of  care  and  other  thoughtful  matter  to  keep 
him  awake,  a  man  from  long  practice  or  fatigue  or  resolution 
begins  hy  going  to  sleep  as  usual :  and  gets  a  nap  in  advance 
of  Anxiety.  But  she  soon  comes  up  with  him  and  jogs  his 
shoulder,  and  says,  "  Come,  my  man,  no  more  of  this  laziness, 
you  must  wake  up  and  have  a  talk  with  me."  Then  the}'  fall 
to  together  in  the  midnight.  Well,  whatever  might  afterwards 
happen  to  him,  poor  little  Pen  was  not  come  to  this  state  3'et ; 
he  tumbled  into  a  sound  sleep  —  did  not  wake  until  an  early 
hour  in  the  morning,  when  the  rooks  began  to  caw  from  the 
Uttle  wood  beyond  his  bedroom  windows  ;  and  —  at  that  very 
instant  and  as  his  eyes  started  open,  the  beloved  image  was  in 
his  mind.  "  M}^  dear  bo}^"  he  heard  her  say,  "  3'ou  were  in  a 
sound  sleep,  and  I  would  not  disturb  you :  but  I  have  been 
close  by  your  pillow  all  this  while  :  and  I  don't  intend  that  you 
shall  leave  me.  I  am  Love  !  I  bring  with  me  fever  and  pas- 
sion :  wild  longing,  maddening  desire ;  restless  craving  and 
seeking.  Many  a  long  day  ere  this  I  heard  30U  calling  out  for 
me  ;  and  behold  now  I  am  come." 

Was  Pen  frightened  at  the  summons?  Not  he.  He  did 
not  know  what  was  coming :  it  was  all  wild  pleasure  and  de- 
light as  yet.  And  as,  when  three  3'ears  previously',  and  on 
entering  the  fifth  form  at  the  Cistercians,  his  father  had  made 
Mm  a  present  of  a  gold  watch  which  the  boy  took  from  under 


PENDENNIS.  41 

his  pillow  and  examined  on  the  instant  of  waking :  for  ever 
rubbing  and  polisliing  it  up  in  private  and  retiring  into  corners 
to  listen  to  its  ticking  :  so  tlie  young  man  exulted  over  his  new 
delight ;  felt  in  his  waistcoat  pocket  to  see  that  it  was  safe  ; 
wound  it  up  at  nights,  and  at  the  very  first  moment  of  wakino- 
hugged  it  and  looked  at  it.  — By  the  wa}',  that  first  watch  of 
Pen's  was  a  showy  ill  manufactured  piece  ;  it  never  went  well 
from  the  beginning,  and  was  always  getting  out  of  order. 
And  after  putting  it  aside  into  a  drawer  and  forgetting  it  for 
some  time,  he  swopped  it  finally'  away  for  a  more  useful  time- 
keeper. 

Pen  felt  himself  to  be  ever  so  many  years  older  since  yes- 
terday. There  was  no  mistake  about  it  now.  He  was"  as 
much  in  love  as  the  best  hero  in  the  best  romance  he  ever  read. 
He  told  John  to  bring  his  shaving  water  with  the  utmost  con- 
fidence. He  dressed  himself  in  some  of  his  finest  clothes  that 
morning :  and  came  splendidly  down  to  breakfast,  patronizing 
his  mother  and  little  Laura,  who  had  been  strumming  her  music 
lesson  for  hours  before  ;  and  who  after  he  had  read  the  prayers 
(of  which  he  did  not  heed  one  single  syllable) ,  wondered  at  his 
grand  appearance,  and  asked  him  to  tell  her  what  the  play  was 
about  ? 

Pen  laughed  and  declined  to  tell  Laura  what  the  play  was 
about.  In  fact  it  was  quite  as  well  th«t  she  should  not  know. 
Then  she  asked  him  why  he  had  got  on  his  fine  pin  and  beauti- 
ful new  waistcoat. 

Pen  blushed,  and  told  his  mother  that  the  old  schoolfellow 
with  whom  he  had  dined  at  Chatteris  was  reading  with  a  tutor 
a',  Bapiiouth,  a  ver}'  learned  man  ;  and  as  he  was  himself  to 
go  to  College,  and  as  there  were  several  30ung  men  pursuing 
their  '  studies  at  Bay  mouth  —  he  was  anxious  to  ride  over  — 
and  —  and  just  see  what  the  course  of  their  reading  was. 

Laura  made  a  long  face.  Helen  Pendennis  looked  hard  at 
her  son,  troubled  more  than  ever  with  the  vague  doubt  and 
terror  which  had  been  haunting  her  ever  since  the  last  night, 
when  Farmer  Gurnett  brought  back  the  news  that  Pen  would 
not  return  home  to  dinner.  Arthur's  e3-es  defied  her.  She 
tried  to  console  herself,  and  drive  off"  her  fears.  The  bo}'  had 
never  told  her  an  untruth.  Pen  conducted  himself  during 
breakfast  in  a  very  haught}'  and  supercilious  manner :  aad, 
taking  leave  of  the  elder  and  younger  Kdy,  wa.^  presently 
heard  riding  out  of  the  stable-court.  He  '^/ent  gentl}'  at  first, 
but  galloped  like  a  madman  as  soon  as  he  thought  that  he  wfta 
out  of  hearing. 


42  PENDENNIS. 

Smirke,  thinking  of  his  own  affairs,  and  softly  riding  with 
his  toes  out,  to  give  Pen  his  three  hours'  reading  at  Fairoaks, 
met  his  pupil,  who  shot  by  him  hke  the  wind.  Srairke's  j^on}' 
shied,  as  the  other  thundered  past  him  ;  the  gentle  curate  went 
over  his  head  among  the  stinging-nettles  in  the  hedge.  Pen 
laughed  as  the}'  met,  pointed  toward  the  Ba3'mouth  road,  and 
was  gone  half  a  mile  in  that  du-ection  before  poor  Smirke  had 
picked  himself  up. 

Pen  had  resolved  in  his  mind  that  he  must  see  Foker  that 
morning ;  he  must  hear  about  her ;  know  about  her ;  be  with 
somebody  who  knew  her;  and  honest  Smirke,  for  his  part, 
sitting  up  among  the  stinging-nettles,  as  his  ix)ny  cropped 
quietl}'  in  the  hedge,  thought  dismally  to  himself,  ought  he  go 
to  Fairoaks  now  that  his  pupil  was  evidentl}'  gone  away  for 
the  da}'.  Yes,  he  thought  he  might  go,  too.  He  might  go 
and  ask  Mrs.  Pendennis  when  Arthur  would  be  back  ;  and  hear 
Miss  Laura  her  Watts's  catechism.  He  got  up  on  the  little 
pony  — both  were  used  to  his  slipping  off —  and  advanced  upon 
the  house  from  which  his  scholar  had  just  rushed  away  in  a 
whirlwind. 

Thus  love  makes  fools  of  all  of  us,  big  and  little ;  and  the 
curate  had  tumbled  over  head  and  heels  in  pursuit  of  it,  and 
I'en  had  started  in  the  first  heat  of  the  mad  race. 


CHAPTER  V. 

MRS.    HALLER    AT   HOME. 

Without  slackening  his  pace  Pen  galloped  on  to  Baymouth, 
put  the  mare  up  at  the  inn  stables,  and  ran  straightway  to  Mr. 
Foker's  lodgings,  of  whom  he  had  taken  the  direction  on  the 
previous  day.  On  reaching  these  apartments,  which  were  over 
a  chemist's  shop  whose  stock  of  cigars  and  soda-water  went  off 
rapidly  by  the  kind  patronage  of  his  young  inmates.  Pen  only 
found  Mr.  Spa^^n,  Foker's  friend,  and  part  owner  of  the  tandem 
which  the  latter  had  driven  into  Chatteris,  who  was  smoking, 
and  teaching  a  little  dog,  a  friend  of  his,  tricks  with  a  bit  of 
biscuit. 

Pen's  healthy  red  face  fresh  from  the  gallop,  compared  oddly 
with  the  waxy  debauched  little  features  of  Foker's  chum ;  Mr. 
Spavin  remarked  the  circumstance.     "Who's  that  man?"  he 


PENDENNTS.  43 

thought,  "  be  looks  as  fresh  as  a  bean.     His  hand  don't  shake 
of  a  morning,  I'd  bet  five  to  one." 

Foker  had  not  come  home  at  all.  Here  was  a  disappoint- 
ment !  —  Mr.  Spavin  could  not  say  when  his  friend  would  return. 
Sometimes  he  stopped  a  daj-,  sometimes  a  week.  Of  what  col- 
lege was  Pen?  Would  he  have  anything?  There  was  a  very 
fair  tap  of  ale.  Mr.  Spavin  was  enabled  to  know  Pendennis's 
name,  on  the  card  which  the  latter  took  out  and  laid  down  (per- 
haps Pen  in  these  days  was  rather  proud  of  having  a  card)  — ■ 
and  so  the  young  men  took  leave. 

Then  Pen  went  down  the  rock,  and  walked  about  on  the 
sand,  biting  his  nails  by  the  shore  of  the  much-sounding  sea. 
It  stretched  before  him  bright  and  immeasurable.  The  blue 
waters  came  rolling  into  the  ba}'.  foaming  and  roaring  hoarsely  : 
Pen  looked  them  in  the  face  with  blank  ej^es,  hardly  regarding 
them.  What  a  tide  there  was  pouring  into  the  lad's  own  mind 
at  the  time,  and  what  a  little  power  had  he  to  check  it !  Pen 
flung  stones  into  the  sea,  but  it  still  kept  coming  on.  He  was 
in  a  rage  at  not  seeing  Foker.  He  wanted  to  see  Foker.  He 
must  see  Foker.  "  Suppose  I  go  on  —  on  the  Chatteris  road, 
just  to  see  if  I  can  meet  him,"  Pen  thought.  Rebecca  was 
saddled  in  another  half-hour,  and  galloping  on  the  grass  by  the 
Chatteris  road.  About  four  miles  from  Ba^-mouth,  the  Claver- 
ing  road  branches  off,  as  everybody  knows,  and  the  mare  nat- 
uralh'  was  ibr  taking  that  turn,  but,  cutting  her  over  the 
shoulder.  Pen  passed  the  turning,  and  rode  on  to  the  turnpike 
without  seeing  any  sign  of  the  black  tandem  and  red  wheels. 

As  he  was  at  the  turnpike  he  might  as  well  go  on :  that  was 
quite  clear.  So  Pen  rode  to  the  George,  and  the  ostler  told 
him  that  Mr.  Foker  was  there  sure  enough,  and  that  "he'd 
been  a  making  a  tremendous  row  the  night  afore,  a  drinkin 
and  a  singin.  and  wanting  to  fight  Tom  the  post-boy  ;  which  I'm 
thinking  he'd  have  had  the  worst  of  it,"  the  man  added,  with  a 
grin.  "  Have  ^-ou  carried  up  ^our  master's  ot  water  to  shave 
with?"  he  added,  in  a  ver\-  satirical  manner,  to  Mr.  Foker's 
domestic,  who  here  came  down  the  yard  bearing  his  master's 
clothes,  most  beautifully  brushed  and  arranged.  "  Show  Mr. 
Pendennis  up  to  'un."  And  Pen  followed  the  man  at  last  to 
the  apartment,  where,  in  the  midst  of  an  immense  bed,  Mr. 
Harry  Foker  lay  reposing. 

The  feather  bed  and  bolsters  swelled  up  all  round  Mr. 
Foker,  so  that  30U  could  hardly  see  his  little  sallow  face  and 
red  silk  nightcap. 

''  Hullo  !  "  said  Pen. 


44  PENDENNIS. 

"Who  goes  there?  brother,  quickly  tell!"  sang  out  the 
voice  from  the  bed.  "What!  Pendennis  again?  Is  youif 
Mamma  acquainted  with  j^our  absence  ?  Did  you  sup  with  nu 
last  night?  No  —  stop  —  who  supped  with  us  last  night, 
Stoopid  ? " 

"There  was  the  three  officers,  sir,  and  Mr.  Bingley,  sir, 
and  Mr.  Costigan,  sir,"  the  man  answered,  who  received  all  Mr. 
Foker's  remarks  with  perfect  gravity. 

"Ah  yes:  the  cup  and  merry  jest  went  round.  We 
chanted  :  and  I  remember  I  wanted  to  fight  a  post-boy.  Did 
I  thrash  him,  Stoopid  ?  " 

"  No,  sir.  Fight  didn't  come  off,  sir,"  said  Stoopid,  still 
with  perfect  gravity.  He  was  arranging  Mr.  Foker's  dressing- 
case  —  a  trunk,  the  gift  of  a  fond  mother,  without  which  the 
young  fellow  never  travelled.  It  contained  a  prodigious  appara- 
,  tus  in  plate  ;  a  silver  dish,  a  silver  mug,  silver  boxes  and  bot- 
I  ties  for  all  sorts  of  essences,  and  a  choice  of  razors  ready 
f  against  the  time  when  Mr.  Foker's  beard  should  come. 

"  Do  it  some  other  da}',"  said  the  3'oung  fellow,  yawning 
and  throwing  up  his  little  lean  arms  over  his  head.  "  No,  there 
was  no  fight ;  but  there  was  chanting.  Bingley  chanted,  I 
chanted,  the  General  chanted  —  Costigan  I  mean.  — •  Did  you 
ever  hear  him  sing  '  The  Little  Pig  under  the  Bed,'  Pen?  " 

"  The  man  we  met  yesterdav,"  said  Pen,  all  in  a  tremor, 
"the  father  of—" 

"  Of  the  Fotheringay,  — the  very  man.  Ain't  she  a  Venus, 
Pen?" 

"  Please  sir,  Mr.  Costigan's  in  the  sittin-room,  sir,  and  says, 
sir,  you  asked  him  to  breakfast,  sir.  Called  five  times,  sir ; 
but  wouldn't  wake  you  on  no  account ;  and  has  been  3'ear  since 
eleven  o'clock,  sir  —  " 

"  How  much  is  it  now? " 

"One,  sir." 

"  What  would  the  best  of  mothers  say,"  cried  the  little  slug- 
gard, "  if  she  saw  me  in  bed  at  this  hour?  She  sent  me  down 
here  with  a  grinder.  She  wants  me  to  cultivate  m}^  neglected 
genius  —  He,  he!  I  say,  Pen,  this  isn't  quite  like  seven 
o'clock  school,  — is  it,  old  bo}-?"  —  and  the  ^'oung  fellow  burst 
out  into  a  boyish  laugh  of  enjoyment.  Then  he  added —  "  Go 
in  and  talk  to  the  General  whilst  I  dress.  And  I  say,  Penden- 
nis, ask  him  to  sing  you  '  The  Little  Pig  under  the  Bed  ; '  it's 
capital."  Pen  went  off  in  great  perturbation,  to  meet  Mr. 
Costigan,  and  Mr.  Foker  commenced  his  toilet. 

Of  Mr.  Foker's  two  gi'andfathers,  the  one  fi-om  whom  he  in- 


PEXDENNIS.  45 

faerited  a  fortune,  was  a  brewer ;  the  other  was  an  earl,  who 
endowed  him  with  the  most  doting  mother  in  the  world.  The 
Fokers  had  been  at  the  Cistercian  school  from  father  to  son ; 
at  which  place,  our  friend,  whose  name  could  be  seen  over  the 
playground  wall,  on  a  public-house  sign,  under  which  "  Foker's 
Entire  "  was  painted,  had  been  dreadfully  bullied  on  account  of 
his  trade,  his  uncomel}-  countenance,  his  inaptitude  for  learning 
and  cleanliness,  his  gluttony  and  other  weak  points.  But  those 
who  know  how  a  susceptible  youth,  under  the  tyrann}-  of  his 
schoolfellows  becomes  silent  and  a  sneak,  may  understand  how 
in  a  very  few  months  after  his  liberation  from  bondage,  he 
develoi:)ed  himself  as  he  had  done ;  and  became  the  humorous, 
the  sarcastic,  the  brilliant  Foker,  with  whom  we  have  made  ac- 
quaintance. A  dunce  he  alwa3s  was,  it  is  true ;  for  learning 
cannot  be  acquired  by  leaving  school  and  entering  at  college 
as  a  fellow-commoner ;  but  he  was  now  (in  his  own  peculiar 
manner)  as  great  a  dandy  as  he  before  had  been  a  slattern,  and 
when  he  entered  his  sitting-room  to  join  his  two  guests,  arrived 
scented  and  arra3-ed  in  fine  linen,  and  perfectly  splendid  in 
appearance. 

General  or  Captain  Costigan  —  for  the  latter  was  the  rank 
which  he  preferred  to  assume  —  was  seated  in  the  window  with 
the  newspaper  held  before  him  at  arm's  length.  The  Captain's 
eyes  were  somewhat  dim  :  and  he  was  spelling  the  paper,  with 
the  help  of  his  lips,  as  well  as  of  those  bloodshot  eyes  of  his,  as 
you  see  gentlemen  do  to  whom  reading  is  a  rare  and  difficult 
occupation.  His  hat  was  cocked  very  much  on  one  ear;  and 
as  one  of  his  feet  lay  up  in  the  window-seat,  the  observer  of 
such  matters  might  remark,  by  the  size  and  shabbiness  of  the 
boots  which  the  Captain  wore,  that  times  did  not  go  very  well 
with  him.  Povert}'  seems  as  if  it  were  disposed,  before  it  takes 
possession  of  a  man  entirely-,  to  attack  his  extremities  first :  the 
coverings  of  his  head,  feet,  and  hands,  are  its  first  pre}-.  All 
these  parts  of  the  Captain's  person  were  particularity  rakish  and 
shabby.  As  soon  as  he  saw  Pen  he  descended  from  the  window- 
seat  and  saluted  the  new  comer,  first  in  a  military  manner,  by 
conveying  a  couple  of  his  fingers  (covered  with  a  broken  black 
glove )  to  his  hat,  and  then  removing  that  ornament  altogether. 
The  Captain  was  inclined  to  be  bald,  l)ut  he  brought  a  quantity 
of  lank  iron-gray  hair  over  his  pate,  and  had  a  couple  of  wisps  of 
the  same  falling  down  on  each  side  of  his  face.  Much  whiskey 
had  spoiled  what  complexion  Mr.  Costigan  may  have  possessed 
in  his  3outh.  His  once  handsome  face  had  now  a  copper  tinge. 
lie  wore  a  very  high  stock,  scarred  and  stained  in  many  places  j 


46  PENDENNIS. 

and  a  dregs-coat  tightly  buttoned  up  in  those  parts  where  th« 
buttons  had  not  parted  compan}-  from  the  garment. 

"•  The  young  gentleman  to  whom  I  had  the  honor  to  be  in* 
trojuiced  yesterday  in  the  Cathedral  Yard,"  said  the  Captain, 
with  a  splendid  bow  and  wave  of  his  hat.  ' '  I  hope  I  see  ^ou 
well,  sir.  I  marked  \e  in  the  thayater  last  night  during  me 
daughter's  perfawrumance  ;  and  missed  ye  on  my  return.  I 
did  but  conduct  her  home,  sir,  for  Jack  Costigan,  though  poor, 
is  a  gentleman  ;  and  when  I  reintered  the  house  to  pay  me 
respects  to  me  joyous  3'oung  friend,  Mr.  Foker  —  ye  were  gone. 
We  had  a  jolly  night  of  ut,  sir  —  Mr.  Foker,  the  three  gallant 
young  dragoons,  and  your  'umble  servant.  Gad,  sir,  it  put  me 
in  mind  of  one  of  our  old  nights  when  I  bore  her  Majesty's; 
commission  in  the  Foighting  Hundtherd  and  Third."  And  he 
pulled  out  an  old  snufl-box,  which  he  presented  with  a  stately 
air  to  his  new  acquaintance. 

Arthur  was  a  great  deal  too  much  flurried  to  speak.  This 
shabby-looking  buck  was  —  was  her  father.     ' '  I  hope,  Miss 

F ,  Miss  Costigan  is  well,  sir,"  Pen  said,  flushing  up.     "  She 

—  she  gave  me  greater  pleasure,  than  —  than  I  —  I — I  ever 
enjo3-ed  at  a  play.  I  think,  sir  —  I  think  she's  the  finest  actress 
in  the  world,"  he  gasped  out. 

"  Your  hand,  3'oung  man!  for  ye  speak  from  j'our  heart," 
cried  the  Captain.  "  Thank  ye,  sir,  an  old  soldier  and  a  fond 
father  thanks  ye.  She  is  the  finest  actress  in  the  world.  I've 
seen  the  Siddons,  sir,  and  the  O'Nale  —  They  were  great,  but 
what  were  they  compared  to  Miss  Fotheringay?  I  do  not  wish 
she  should  ashume  her  own  name  while  on  the  stage.  Me 
family,  sir,  are  proud  people  ;  and  the  Costigans  of  Costigans- 
town  think  that  an  honest  man.  who  has  borne  her  Majesty's 
colors  in  the  Hundtherd  and  Third,  would  demean  himself,  by 
permitting  his  daughter  to  earn  her  old  father's  bread." 

"  There  cannot  be  a  more  honorable  duty,  surely,"  Pen  said. 

"  Honorable  !  Bedad,  sir,  Pd  like  to  see  the  man  who  said 
Jack  Costigan  would  consent  to  anything  dishonorable.  I  have 
a  heart,  sir,  though  I  am  poor ;  I  like  a  man  who  hus  a  heart. 
You  haA^e  :  I  read  it  in  your  honest  face  and  steady  eye.  And 
would  you  believe  it?"  he  added,  after  a  pause,  and  with  a  pa- 
thetic whisper,  "  that  that  Bingley,  who  has  made  his  fortun<^ 
by  me  child,  gives  her  but  two  guineas  a  week :  out  of  which 
she  finds  herself  in  dresses,  and  which,  added  to  me  own  small 
means,  makes  our  all?" 

Now  the  Captain's  means  were  so  small  as  to  be,  it  may  be 
said,  quite  invisible.     But  nobod}'  knows  how  the  wind  is  tern- 


FENDENNia  47 

pered  to  shorn  Irish  lambs,  and  in  what  marvellous  places  they 
find  pasture.  If  Captain  Costigan,  whom  I  have  the  honor  to 
know,  would  but  have  told  his  histoiy,  it  would  have  been  a 
great  moral  story.  But  he  neither  would  have  told  it  if  he 
could,  nor  could  if  he  would  ;  for  the  Captain  was  not  only  un- 
accustomed to  tell  the  truth,  —  he  was  unable  even  to  think  it  — 
and  fact  and  fiction  reeled  together  in  his  muzzy,  whiskeyfied 
brain. 

He  began  life  rather  brillianth-  with  a  pair  of  colors,  a  fine 
person  and  legs,  and  one  of  the  most  beautiful  voices  in  the 
world.  To  his  latest  day  he  sang  with  admirable  pathos  and 
humor,  those  wonderful  Irish  ballads  which  are  so  mirthful  and 
so  melanchol}' :  and  was  alwa3's  the  first  himself  to  cry  at  their 
pathos.  Poor  Cos  !  he  was  at  once  brave  and  maudlin,  humor- 
ous and  an  idiot ;  alwa3-s  good-natured,  and  sometimes  almost 
trustworthy.  Up  to  the  last  da}'  of  his  life  he  would  drink  with 
any  man,  and  back  any  man's  bill :  and  his  end  was  in  a  spong- 
ing-house,  where  the  sherilf 's  officer,  who  took  him,  was  fond 
of  him. 

In  his  brief  morning  of  life,  Cos  formed  the  delight  of  regi- 
mental messes,  and  had  the  honor  of  singing  his  songs,  baccha- 
nalian and  sentimental,  at  the  tables  of  the  most  illustrious 
generals  and  commanders-in-chief,  in  the  course  of  which  period 
he  drank  three  times  as  much  claret  as  was  good  for  him,  and 
spent  his  doubtful  patrimony.  What  became  of  him  subse- 
quently to  his  retirement  from  the  army,  is  no  affair  of  ours.  I 
take  it,  no  foreigner  understands  the  life  of  an  Irish  gentleman 
without  money,  the  way  in  which  he  manages  to  kee})  afloat  — 
the  wind-raising  conspiracies  in  which  he  engages  with  heroes 
as  unfortunate  as  himself — the  means  by  which  he  contrives, 
during  most  days  of  the  week,  to  get  his  portion  of  whiskey-and- 
water :  all  these  are  m3'steries  to  us  inconceivable  :  but  suffice 
it  to  say,  that  through  all  the  storms  of  life  Jack  had  floated 
somehow,  and  the  lamp  of  his  nose  had  never  gone  out. 

Before  he  and  Pen  had  had  a  half-hour's  conversation,  the 
Captain  managed  to  extract  a  couple  of  sovereigns  from  the 
young  gentleman  for  tickets  for  his  daughter's  benefit,  which 
was  to  take  place  speedily  ;  and  was  not  a  bond  fide  transaction 
such  as  that  of  the  last  year,  when  poor  Miss  Fotheringay  had 
lost  fifteen  shillings  b}'  her  venture  ;  but  w^as  an  arrangement 
with  the  manager,  by  which  the  lad}'  was  to  have  the  sale  of  a 
eertain  number  of  tickets,  keeping  for  herself  a  large  portion  of 
the  sum  for  which  they  were  sold. 

I'tii  had  but  two  pounds  in  his  purse,  and  he  handed  them 


48  PENDENNIS. 

oyer  to  the  Captain  for  the  tickets  ;  he  would  have  been  afraid 
to  offer  more  lest  he  should  offend  the  latter's  delicacy.  Costi- 
gan  scrawled  him  an  order  for  a  box,  lightly  slipped  the  sover- 
eigns into  his  waistcoat,  and  slapped  liis  liand  over  the  place 
where  they  lay.     They  seemed  to  warm  his  old  sides. 

"Faith,  sir,"  said  he,  "the  bullion's  scarcer  with  me  than 
it  used  to  be,  as  is  the  case  with  many  a  good  fellow.  I  won 
six  hundtherd  of  'em  in  a  single  night,  sir,  when  me  kind  friend, 
His  Royal  Highness  the  Duke  of  Kent,  was  in  Gibralther." 

Then  it  was  good  to  see  the  Captain's  behavior  at  breakfast, 
before  the  devilled  turkey  and  the  mutton  chops  !  His  stories 
poured  forth  unceasingly,  and  his  spirits  rose  as  he  chatted  to 
the  young  men.  When  he  got  a  bit  of  sunshine,  the  old  lazza- 
rone  basked  in  it ;  he  prated  about  his  own  affairs  and  past 
splendor,  and  all  the  lords,  generals,  and  Lord-Lieutenants  he 
had  ever  known.  He  described  the  death  of  his  darling  Bessie, 
the  late  Mrs.  Costigan,  and  the  challenge  he  had  sent  to  Cap- 
tain Shanty  Clancy,  of  the  Slashers,  for  looking  rude  at  Miss 
Fotheringay  as  she  was  on  her  kyar  in  the  Phaynix  ;  and  then 
he  described  how  the  Captain  apologized,  gave  a  dinner  at  the 
Kildare  Street,  where  six  of  them  drank  twenty-one  bottles  of 
claret,  &c.  He  announced  that  to  sit  with  two  such  noble  and 
generous  3'oung  fellows  was  the  happiness  and  pride  of  an  old 
soldier's  existence ;  and  having  had  a  second  glass  of  Cura^oa, 
was  so  happy  that  he  began  to  cry.  Altogether  we  should  say 
that  the  Captain  was  not  a  man  of  much  strength  of  mind,  or  a 
very  eligible  companion  for  youth  ;  but  there  are  worse  men, 
holding  much  better  places  in  life,  and  more  dishonest,  who 
have  never  committed  half  so  many  rogueries  as  he.  They 
walked  out,  the  Captain  holding  an  arm  of  each  of  his  dear 
young  friends,  and  in  a  maudlin  state  of  contentment.  He 
winked  at  one  or  two  tradesmen's  shops  where,  possibly,  he 
owed  a  bill,  as  much  as  to  say  "  See  the  company  I'm  in  —  sure 
I'll  pay  you,  my  boy,"  —  and  they  parted  finally  with  Mr.  Foker 
at  a  billiard-room,  where  the  latter  had  a  particular  engagement 
with  some  gentlemen  of  Colonel  Swallowtail's  regiment. 

Pen  and  the  shabby  Captain  still  walked  the  street  together  ; 
the  Captain,  in  his  sly  way,  making  inquiries  about  Mr.  Foker's 
fortune  and  station  in  life.  Pen  told  him  how  Foker's  father 
was  a  celebrated  brewer,  and  his  mother  was  Lady  Agnes  Mil- 
ton, Lord  Rosherville's  daughter.  The  Captain  broke  out  into 
a  strain  of  exaggerated  compliment  and  panegyric  about  Mr. 
Foker,  whose  'Miative  aristocracie,"  he  said,  "could  be  seen 
with  the  twinkling  of  au  oi  —  and  only  served  to  adawrun  other 


PENDENNIS.  49 

qualities  which  he  possessed,  a  foin  intellect  and  a  generoivg 
heart." 

Pen  -walked  on,  listening  to  his  companion's  prate,  wonder- 
ing^, amused,  and  puzzled.  It  had  not  as  3'et  entered  into  the 
boy's  head  to  disbelieve  an}'  statement  that  was  made  to  him  ; 
and  being  of  a  candid  nature  himself,  he  took  naturally  for  truth 
what  other  people  told  him.  Costigan  had  never  had  a  better 
listener,  and  was  highly  flattered  by  the  attentiveness  and  mod- 
est bearing  of  the  young  man. 

So  much  pleased  was  he  with  the  young  gentleman,  so  art- 
less, honest,  and  cheerful  did  Pen  seem  to  be,  that  the  Captain 
finally  made  him  an  invitation,  which  he  very  seldom  accorded 
to  young  men,  and  asked  Pen  if  he  would  do  him  the  fevor  to 
enter  his  humble  abode,  which  was  near  at  hand,  where  the 
Captain  would  have  the  honor  of  inthrojuicing  his  3'oung  friend 
to  his  daughther.  Miss  Fotheringay  ? 

Pen  was  so  delightfully  shocked  at  this  invitation,  that  he 
thought  he  should^have  dropped  from  the  Captain's  arm  at 
first,  and  trembled  lest  the  other  should  discover  his  emotion. 
He  gasped  out  a  few  incoherent  words,  indicative  of  the  high 
gratification  he  should  have  in  being  presented  to  the  lady  for 
■v^^hose  —  for  whose  talents  he  had  conceived  such  an  admiration 
—  such  an  extreme  admiration ;  and  followed  the  Captain, 
scarcely  knowing  whither  that  gentleman  led  him.  He  was 
going  to  see  her  !  He  was  going  to  see  her !  In  her  was  the 
centre  of  the  universe.  She  was  the  kernel  of  the  world  for 
Pen.  Yesterday,  before  he  knew  her,  seemed  a  period  ever  so 
long  ago  —  a  revolution  was  between  him  and  that  time,  and  a 
new  world  about  to  begin. 

The  Captain  conducted  his  young  friend  to  that  quiet  little 
street  in  Chatteris,  called  Prior's  Lane,  which  lies  close  by 
Dean's  Green  and  the  canons'  houses,  and  is  overlooked  by  the 
enormous  towers  of  the  cathedral ;  there  the  Captain  dwelt 
modestly  la  the  first  floor  of  a  low  gabled  house,  on  the  door 
of  which  was  the  brass  plate  of  "Creed,  Tailor  and  Robe- 
maker."  Creed  was  dead,  however.  His  widow  was  a  pew- 
opener  in  the  cathedral  hard  by  ;  his  eldest  son  was  a  little  scamp 
of  a  choir-boy,  who  played  toss-halfpenny,  led  his  little  brothers 
i:,to  mischief,  and  had  a  voice  as  sweet  as  an  angel.  A  couple 
of  the  latter  were  sitting  on  the  doorstep,  and  they  jumped  up 
with  great  alacricy  to  meet  their  lodger,  and  plunged  wildly, 
and  rather  to  Pei.  s  surprise,  at  the  swallow-tails  of  the  Cap- 
tain's dress-coat ,  for  the  truth  is,  that  the  good-natured  gen- 
tleman, when  he  was  in  cash,  generally  brought  home  an  apple, 


50  PENDENNIS. 

or  a  piece  of  gingerbread  for  these  children.  "  Where b\'  the 
widd}'  ncA'er  pressed  me  for  rint  when  not  conA^anient,"  as  he 
remarked  aftei-wards  to  Pen,  winking  knowingl}-,  and  laying  a 
finger  on  his  nose. 

As  Pen  followed  his  companion  up  the  creaking  old  stair 
his  knees  trembled  under  him.  He  could  hardly-  see  when  he 
entered,  following  the  Captain,  and  stood  in  the  room  — in  her 
room.  He  saw  something  black  before  him,  and  waving  as  if 
making  a  curts}-,  and  heard,  but  quite  indistincth',  Costigan 
making  a  speech  over  him,  in  which  the  Captain-  with  his  usual 
magniloquence,  expressed  to  "me  child"  his  wish  to  make  her 
known  to  "his  dear  and  admirable  3'oung  friend,  Mr.  Awthcr 
Pindinnis,  a  young  gentleman  of  property  in  the  neighborhood, 
a  person  of  rcfoined  moind,  and  emiable  manners,  a  sinsare 
lover  of  poethry,  and  a  man  possest  of  a  feeling  and  aflJection- 
ate  heart." 

"It  is  very  fine  weather,"  Miss  Fotheringay  said,  in  an 
Irish  accent,  and  with  a  deep  rich  melancholy  voice. 

"Very,"  said  Mr.  Pendennis.  In  this  romantic  way  their 
conversation  began  ;  and  he  found  himself  seated  on  a  chair, 
and  having  leisure  to  look  at  the  young  lad^^ 

She  looked  still  handsomer  oflT  the  stage  than  before  the 
lamps.  All  her  attitudes  were  naturally'  grand  and  majestical. 
If  she  went  and  stood  up  against  the  mantel-piece  her  robe 
draped  itself  classically  round  her  ;  her  chin  supported  itself  on 
her  hand,  the  other  lines  of  her  form  arranged  themselves  in 
full  harmonious  undulations  —  she  looked  like  a  muse  in  con- 
templation. If  she  sat  down  on  a  cane-bottomed  chair,  her 
arm  rounded  itself  over  the  back  of  the  seat,  her  hand  seemed 
as  if  it  ought  to  have  a  sceptre  put  into  it,  the  folds  of  her  dress 
fell  naturally  round  her  in  order :  all  her  movements  were 
graceful  and  imperial.  In  the  morning  you  could  see  her  hair 
was  blue-black,  her  complexion  of  dazzling  fairness,  with  the 
faintest  possible  blush  flickering,  as  it  were,  in  her  cheek.  Her 
e3'es  were  gra}',  with  prodigious  long  lashes  ;  and  as  for  her 
mouth,  Mr.  Pendennis  has  given  me  subsequently-  to  under- 
stand, that  it  was  of  a  staring  red  color,  with  which  the  most 
brilliant  geranium,  sealing-wax,  or  Guards-man's  coat,  could 
not  vie. 

"And  ver}'  warm,"  continued  this  empress  and  Queen  ot 
Sheba. 

Mr.  Pen  again  assented,  and  tlie  conversation  rolled  on  in 
this  manner.  She  asked  Costigan  whether  he  had  had  a  plea.«- 
ant  evening  at  the  George,  and  he  recounted  the  supper  and 


PENDENNIS.  51 

the  tumbl&rs  of  punch.  Then  the  father  asked  her  how  she  had 
been  employing  the  morning. 

"  Bows  came,"  said  she,  '•  at  ten,  and  we  studied  Ophaha. 
It's  for  the  twenty-fourth,  when  I  hope,  sir,  we  shall  have  the 
honor  of  seeing  36." 

"  Indeed,  indeed,  you  will,"  Mr.  Pendennis  cried  ;  wondering 
that  she  could  sa}'  "  Ophalia,"  and  speak  with  an  Irish  inflec- 
tion  of  voice  naturally,  who  had  not  the  least  Hibernian  accent 
on  the  stage. 

"  I've  secured  'um  for  your  benefit,  dear,"  said  the  Captain, 
tapping  his  waistcoat  pocket,  wherein  lay  Pen's  sovereigns,  and 
winking  at  Pen,  with  one  eye,  at  which  the  boy  blushed. 

'^Mr.   the   gentleman's  very   obleeging,"    said    Mrs. 

Haller. 

"  My  name  is  Pendennis,"  said  Pen,  blushing.  "I  —  I  — 
hope  you'll  —  30u'll  remember  it."  His  heart  thumped  so  as 
he  made  this  audacious  declaration,  that  he  almost  choked  in 
uttering  it. 

"Pendennis"  —  she  answered  slowly,  and  looking  him  full 
in  the  eyes,  with  a  glance  so  straight,  so  clear,  so  bright,  so 
killing,  with  a  voice  so  sweet,  so  round,  so  low,  that  the  word 
and  the  glance  shot  Pen  through  and  through,  and  perfectly 
transfixed  him  with  pleasure. 

"  I  never  knew  the  name  was  so  prett}'^  before,"  Pen  said. 

" 'Tis  a  very  pretty  name,"  OpheUa  said.  "  Pentweazle's 
not  a  prettj^  name.  Remember,  papa,  when  we  were  on  the 
Norwich  Circuit,  young  Pentweazle,  who  used  to  i)lay  second 
old  men,  and  married  Miss  Rancy,  the  Columbine  ;  they're  both 
engaged  in  London  now,  at  the  Queen's,  and  get  five  pounds  a 
week.  Pentweazle  wasn't  his  real  name.  'Twas  Judkin  gave 
it  him,  I  don't  know  why.  His  name  was  Harrington  ;  that  is, 
his  real  name  was  Potts  ;  fawther  a  clergyman,  ver^'  respectable. 
Harrington  was  in  London,  and  got  in  debt.  Ye  remember,  he 
came  out  in  Falkland,  to  Mrs.  Bunce's  Juha." 

"  And  a  pretty  Julia  she  was,"  the  Captain  interposed  ;  "  a 
woman  of  fifty,  and  a  mother  of  ten  children.  'Tis  you  who 
ought  to  have  been  Julia,  or  my  name's  not  Jack  Costigan." 

"■  I  didn't  take  the  leading  business  then,"  Miss  Fotheringay 
said  modestly  ;  "  I  wasn't  fit  for't  till  Bows  taught  me." 

"  True  for  you,  my  dear,"  said  tho  Captain  :  and  blinding  to 
Pendennis,  he  added,  "  Rejuiced  in  circumstances,  sir,  1  was 
for  some  time  a  fencing-master  in  Dublin  ;  (there's  only  tliree 
men  in  the  empire  could  touch  me  with  the  foil  once,  but  Jack 
Costigan's  getting  old  and  stiff"  now,  sir,)  and  my  daughter  had 


52  PENDENNIS. 

an  engagement  at  the  thaj'ater  there  ;  and  'twas  there  that  my 
friend,  Mr.  Bows,  gave  her  lessons,  and  made  her  what  ye  see^ 
What  have  ye  done  since  Bows  went,  Emily  ?  " 

"  Sure,  I've  made  a  pie,"  Emily  said,  with  perfect  simplicity. 
She  pronounced  it  "  Poy." 

"If  ye'll  try  it  at  four  o'clock,  sir,  say  the  word,"  said 
Costigan  gallantly.  "That  girl,  sir,  makes  the  best  veal  and 
ham  pie  in  England,  and  I  think  I  can  promise  ye  a  glass  of 
punch  of  the  right  flavor." 

Pen  had  promised  to  be  home  to  dinner  at  six  o'clock,  but 
the  rascal  thought  he  could  accommodate  pleasure  and  duty  in 
this  point,  and  was  only  too  eager  to  accept  this  invitation.  He 
looked  on  with  delight  and  wonder  whilst  Ophelia  busied  herself 
about  the  room,  and  prepared  for  the  dinner.  She  arranged 
the  glasses,  and  laid  and  smoothed  the  little  cloth,  all  which 
duties  she  performed  with  a  quiet  grace  and  good-humor,  which 
enchanted  her  guest  more  and  more.  The  "  poy  "  arrived  from 
the  baker's  in  the  hands  of  one  of  the  Uttle  choir-boy's  brothers 
at  the  proper  hour :  and  at  four  o'clock.  Pen  found  himself  at 
dinner  —  actuall}'  at  dinner  with  the  handsomest  woman  in  all 
creation  —  with  his  first  and  only  love,  whom  he  had  adored 
ever  since  when  ?  —  ever  since  yesterday,  ever  since  for  ever. 
He  ate  a  crust  of  her  making,  he  poured  her  out  a  glass  of  beer, 
he  saw  her  drink  a  glass  of  punch  — just  one  wine-glass  full  — 
out  of  the  tumbler  which  she  mixed  for  her  papa.  She  was 
perfectly  good-natured,  and  offered  to  mix  one  for  Pendennis 
too.  It  was  prodigioush^  strong ;  Pen  had  never  in  his  hfe 
drunk  so  much  spirits-and-water.  Was  it  the  punch  or  the 
punch-maker  who  intoxicated  him  ? 

Pen  tried  to  engage  her  in  conversation  about  poetry  and 
about  her  profession.  He  asked  her  what  she  thought  of 
Ophelia's  madness,  and  whether  she  was  in  love  with  Hamlet 
or  not?  "  In  love  with  such  a  little  ojus  wretch  as  that  stunted 
manager  of  a  Bingley  ?  "  She  bristled  with  indignation  at  the 
thought.  Pen  explained  it  was  not  of  her  he  spoke,  but  of 
Ophelia  of  the  pla}-.  "Oh,  indeed,  if  no  offence  was  meant, 
none  was  taken  :  but  as  for  Bingle}-,  indeed,  she  did  not  value 
him  —  not  that  glass  of  punch."  Pen  next  tried  her  on  Kotze- 
bue.  "  Kotzebue  ?  who  was  he  ?  "  —  "  The  author  of  the  play 
in  which  she  had  been  performing  so  admirablj^"  "  She  did 
not  know  that  —  the  man's  name  at  the  beginning  of  the  book 
was  Thompson,"  she  said.  Pen  laughed  at  her  adorable  sim- 
plicit}'.  He  told  her  of  the  melancholy  fate  of  the  author  of  the 
play,  and  how  Sand  had  killed  him.     It  was  the  first  time  io 


PENDENNIS.  53 

her  life  that  Miss  Costigan  had  ever  heard  of  Mr.  Kotzebue's 
existence,  but  she  Jooked  as  if  she  was  ver}'  much  interested, 
and  her  sym})athy  sufficed  for  honest  Pen. 

And  in  the  midst  of  this  simple  conversation,  the  hour  and 
a  quarter  which  poor  Pen  could  afford  to  allow  himself,  passed 
away  onl}'  too  quickly ;  and  he  had  taken  leave,  he  was  gone, 
and  away  on  his  rapid  road  homewards  on  the  back  of  Re- 
ibecca.  She  was  called  upon  to  show  her  mettle  in  the  three 
'journeys  which  she  made  that  da}-. 

"What  was  that  he  w^as  talking  about,  the  madness  of 
Hamlet,  and  the  theor}^  of  the  great  German  critic  on  the 
subject?"  Emil}-  asked  of  her  father. 

"  'Deed  then,  I  don't  know,  Milly  dear,"  answered  the  Cap- 
tain.    "■  We'll  ask  Bows  when  he  comes." 

"  An3'how,  he's  a  nice,  fair-spoken,  pretty  3'oung  man,"  the 
lady  said  :   "  how  many  tickets  did  he  take  of  j-ou?  " 

"  'Faith,  then,  he  took  six,  and  gev  me  two  guineas,  Milly," 
the  Captain  said.  "  I  suppose  them  3'oung  chaps  is  not  too 
flush  of  coin." 

"  He's  full  of  book-learning,"  Miss  Fotheringay  continued. 
"  Kotzebue  !  He,  he,  what  a  droll  name  indeed,  now  ;  and 
the  poor  fellow  killed  by  .Sand,  too  !  Did  ye  ever  hear  such  a 
thing?     I'll  ask  Bows  about  it,  papa  dear." 

"A  queer  death,  sure  enough,"  ejaculated  the  Captain,  and 
changed  the  painful  theme.  "  'Tis  an  elegant  mare  the  young 
gentleman  rides,"  Costigan  went  on  to  sa}',  "  and  a  grand 
breakfast,  intireh-,  that  young  Mister  Foker  gave  us." 

"  He's  good  for  two  private  boxes,  and  at  leest  twenty  tick- 
ets, I  should  sa}',"  cried  the  daughter,  a  prudent  lass,  who 
always  kept  her  fine  e3'es  on  the  main  chance. 

"  I'll  go  bail  of  that,"  answered  the  Papa  ;  and  so  their  con- 
versation continued  awhile,  until  the  tumbler  of  punch  was  fin- 
ished ;  and  their  hour  of  departure  soon  came,  too  ;  for  at  half- 
past  six  Miss  Fotheringa3'  was  to  appear  at  the  theatre  again, 
whither  her  father  alwa3's  accompanied  her :  and  stood,  as  we 
have  seen,  in  the  side-scene  watching  her,  and  drank  spirits- 
and-water  in  the  green-room  with  the  company  there. 

"  How  beautiful  she  is,"  thought  Pen,  cantering  homewards. 
"  How  simple  and  how  tender !  How  charming  it  is  to  see  a 
woman  of  her  genius  busying  herself  with  the  humble  offices  of 
domestic  life,  cooking  dishes  to  make  her  old  father  comfortable, 
and  brewing  him  drink !  How  rude  it  was  of  me  to  begin  to 
talk  about  professional  matters,  and  how  well  she  turned  the 
conversation  !     By-the-way,  she  talked  about  professional  mat' 


54  PENDENNIS. 

ters  herself ;  but  then  with  what  fun  and  humor  she  told  the 
story  of  her  comrade,  Pentweazle,  as  he  was  called !  There 
is  no  humor  like  Irish  humor.  Her  father  is  rather  tedious, 
but  thorouglily  amiable  ;  and  how  tine  of  him,  giving  lessons 
in  fencing  after  he  quitted  the  arm}',  where  he  was  the  pet  of 
the  Duke  of  Kent !  Fencing !  I  should  like  to  continue  m^- 
fencing,  or  I  shall  forget  what  Angelo  taught  me.  Uncle  Arthur 
alwa3'S  liked  me  to  fence  —  he  says  it  is  the  exercise  of  a  gentle- 
man. Hang  it.  I'll  talve  some  lessons  of  Captain  Costigan, 
Go  along,  Rebecca  —  up  the  hill,  old  lady.  Pendennis,  Pen 
dennis  —  how  she  spoke  the  word  !  Emily,  Emily  !  how  good, 
how  noble,  how  beautiful,  how  perfect,  she  is  !  " 

Now  the  reader,  who  has  had  the  benefit  of  overhearing  the 
entire  conversation  which  Pen  had  with  Miss  Fotheringay,  can 
judge  for  himself  about  the  powers  of  her  mind,  and  may 
perhaps  be  disposed  to  think  that  she  has  not  said  anything 
astonishingly  humorous  or  intellectual  in  the  course  of  the  above 
interview. 

But  what  did  our  Pen  care  ?  He  saw  a  pair  of  bright  eyes, 
and  he  believed  in  them — a  beautiful  image,  and  he  fell  down 
and  worshipped  it.  He  supplied  the  meaning  which  her  words 
wanted  ;  and  created  the  divinity  which  he  loved.  Was  Titania 
the  first  who  fell  in  love  with  an  ass,  or  Pj^gmalion  the  onl}- 
artist  who  has  gone  crazy  about  a  stone  ?  He  had  found  her : 
he  had  found  vvhat  his  soul  thirsted  after.  He  flung  himself 
into  the  stream  and  drank  with  all  his  might.  Let  those  who 
have  been  thirsty  own  how  delicious  that  first  draught  is.  As 
he  rode  down  the  avenue  towards  home  —  Pen  shrieked  with 
laughter  as  he  saw  the  Reverend  Mr.  Smirke  once  more  coming 
demurel}'  awa}^  from  Fairoaks  on  his  pon}-.  Smirke  had  dawd- 
led and  stayed  at  the  cottages  on  the  wa^s  and  then  dawdled 
with  Laura  over  her  lessons  —  and  then  looked  at  Mrs.  Penden- 
nis's  gardens  and  improvements  until  he  had  perfectlj^  boi'ed 
out  that  lady  •  and  he  had  taken  his  leave  at  the  very  last 
minute  without  that  invitation  to  dinner  which  he  fondly  ex- 
pected. 

Pen  was  full  of  kindness  and  triumph.  "  What,  picked  up 
and  sound?"  he  cried  out  laughing.  ''Come  along  back,  old 
fellow,  and  eat  my  dinner  —  I  have  had  mine  :  but  we  will  have 
a  bottle  of  the  old  wine  and  drink  her  health,  Smirke." 

Poor  Smirke  turned  the  pon3''s  head  round,  and  jogged  along 
with  Arthur.  His  mother  was  charmed  to  see  him  in  such  high 
spirits,  and  welcomed  Mr.  Smirke  for  his  sake,  when  Arthur 
said  he  had  forced  the  curate  back  to  dine.     He  gave  a  most 


PENDENNls.  55 

ludicrous  account  of  the  pla}-  of  the  night  before,  &nd  of  the 
acting  of  Bingle}'  the  Manager,  in  his  rickety  Hessians,  and 
the  enormous  Mrs.  Bingley  as  the  Countess,  in  rumpled  green 
satin  and  a  PoUsh  cap  :  he  mimicked  them,  and  delighted  his 
mother  and  little  Laura,  who  clapped  her  hands  with  pleasure. 

"  And  Mrs.  Haller?"  said  Mrs.  Pendennis. 

'•She's  a  stunner,  ma'am,"  Pen  said,  laughing,  and  using 
the  words  of  his  revered  friend,  Mr.  Foker. 

' '  A  what.  Ai'thur  ?  "  asked  the  lad}'. 

"  "\^^^at  is  a  stunner,  Arthur?"  cried  Laura,  in  the  same 
voice. 

So  he  gave  them  a  queer  account  of  Mr.  Foker,  and  how  he 
used  to  be  called  Vats  and  Grains,  and  b}*  other  contumelious 
names  at  school :  and  how  he  was  now  exceedingly  rich,  and  a 
Fellow  Commoner  at  St.  Boniface.  But  ga}-  and  communica- 
tive as  he  was,  Mr.  Pen  did  not  say  one  syllable  about  his  ride 
to  Chatteris  that  day,  or  about  the  new  friends  whom  he  had 
made  there. 

When  the  two  ladies  retired.  Pen,  with  flashing  eyes,  filled 
up  two  great  bumpers  of  Madeira,  and  looking  Smirke  full  in 
the  face  said,  "  Here's  to  her  !  " 

"  Here's  to  her,"  said  the  curate  with  a  sigh,  lifting  the 
glass  :  and  emptying  it,  so  that  his  face  was  a  little  pink  when 
he  put  it  down. 

Pen  had  even  less  sleep  that  night  than  on  the  night  before. 
In  the  morning,  and  almost  before  dawn,  he  went  out  and  sad- 
dled that  unfortunate  Rebecca  himself,  and  rode  her  on  the 
Downs  like  mad.  Again  Love  had  roused  him  —  and  said, 
"  Awake,  Pendennis,  I  am  here."  That  charming  fever  —  that 
delicious  longing  —  and  fire,  and  uncertaint}' :  he  hugged  them 
to  him  —  he  would  not  have  lost  them  for  all  the  world. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

CONTAINS    BOTH    LOVE    AND    WAR. 

Cicero  and  Euripides  did  not  occupy  Mr.  Pen  much  for 
some  time  after  this,  and  honest  Mr.  Smirke  had  a  very  easy 
time  with  kis  pupil.  Rebecca  was  the  animal  who  suffered 
most  in  the  present  state  of  Pen's  mind,  for,  besides  those  days 


56  PENDENNIS. 

^hen  he  could  publicly  announce  his  intention  of  going  to 
Chatteris  to  take  a  fencing-lesson,  and  went  thither  with  the 
knowledge  of  his  mother,  whenever  he  saw  three  hours  clear 
before  him,  the  A'oung  rascal  made  a  rush  for  the  city,  and 
found  his  way  to  Prior's  Lane.  He  was  as  frantic  with  vexa- 
tion when  Rebecca  went  lame,  as  Richard  at  Bosworth,  when 
his  horse  was  killed  under  him  ;  and  got  deeply  into  the  books 
of  the  man  who  kept  the  hunting  stables  at  Chatteris  for  the 
doctoring  of  his  own,  and  the  hire  of  another  animal. 

Then,  and  perhaps  once  in  a  week,  under  pretence  of  going 
to  read  a  Greek  pla}-  with  Smirke,  this  young  reprobate  set  off 
so  .as  to  be  in  time  for  the  Competitor  down  coach,  stayed  a 
couple  of  hours  in  Chatteris,  and  returned  on  the  Rival,  which 
left  for  London  at  ten  at  night.  Once  his  secret  was  nearly 
lost  b}'  Smirke's  simplicity,  of  whom  Mrs.  Pendennis  asked 
whether  they  had  read  a  great  deal  the  night  before,  or  a  ques- 
tion to  that  effect.  Smirke  was  about  to  tell  the  truth,  that  he 
had  never  seen  Mr.  Pen  at  all,  when  the  latter's  boot-heel  came 
grinding  down  on  Mr.  Smirke's  toe  under  the  table,  and  warned 
the  curate  not  to  betray  him. 

They  had  had  conversations  on  the  tender  subject,  of  course. 
There  must  be  a  confidant  and  depositary-  somewhere.  When 
informed,  under  the  most  solemn  vows  of  secrec}',  of  Pen's 
condition  of  mind,  the  curate  said,  with  no  small  tremor,  "  that 
he  hoped  it  was  no  unworthy  object  —  no  unlawful  attachment, 
which  Pen  had  formed  "  —  for  if  so  the  poor  fellow  felt  it  would 
be  his  duty  to  break  his  vow  and  inform  Pen's  mother,  and 
then  there  would  be  a  quarrel,  he  felt,  witli  sickening  apprehen- 
sion, and  he  would  never  again  have  a  chance  of  seeing  what  he 
most  liked  in  the  world. 

"Unlawful,  unworthy!"  Pen  bounced  out  at  the  curate's 
question.  "  She  is  as  pure  as  she  is  beautiful;  I  would  give 
my  heart  to  no  other  woman.  I  keep  the  matter  a  secret  in 
m}'  family,  because  —  because  —  there  are  reasons  of  a  weighty 
nature  which  I  am  not  at  liberty  to  disclose.  But  an}*  man 
who  breathes  a  word  against  her  purit}-  insults  both  her  honor 
and  mine,  and  —  and  dammj',  I  won't  stand  it." 

Smirke,  with  a  faint  laugh,  only  said,  "Well,  well,  don't 
call  me  out,  Arthur,  for  you  know  I  can't  fighi :  "  but  by  this 
compromise  the  wretched  curate  was  put  more  than  ever  into 
the  power  of  his  pupil,  and  the  Greek  and  mathematics  sufi'ered 
correspondingly . 

If  the  reverend  gentleman  had  had  much  discernment,  and 
looked  into  the  Poets'  Corner  of  the  County  Chronicle,  as  it 


PENDENNIS.  51 

arrived  iii  the  Wednesday's  bag,  be  might  ha^-e  seen  "  Mrs. 
Haller,"  ••  Passion  and  Genius,"  ''  Lines  to  Miss  P'otlieringa}-, 
of  the  Theatre  Ro3"al,"  appearing  ever^-  week  ;  and  other  verses 
of  the  most  gloomy,  thrilling,  and  passionate  cast.  But  as 
these  poems  were  no  longer  signed  NEP  b3'  their  artful  com- 
poser, but  subscribed  EROS  ;  neither  the  tutor  nor  Helen,  the 
good  soul,  who  cut  all  her  son's  verses  out  of  the  paper,  knew 
that  Xep  was  no  other  than  that  flaming  Eros,  who  sang  so 
vehement!}'  the  charms  of  the  new  actress. 

"  Who  is  the  lad}',"  at  last  asked  Mrs.  Pendennis,  "  whom 
3'our  rival  is  always  singing  in  the  Count}'  Chronicle?  He 
writes  something  like  you,  dear  Pen,  but  yours  is  much  the 
best.     Have  you  seen  Miss  Fotheringay  ?  " 

Pen  said  yes,  he  had ;  that  night  he  went  to  see  the 
"Stranger,"  she  acted  Mrs.  Haller.  By  the  way  she  was 
going  to  have  a  benefit,  and  was  to  appear  in  Ophelia  —  sup- 
pose we  were  to  go  —  Shakspeare  you  know,  mother  —  we  can 
get  horses  from  the  Clavering  Arms.  Little  Laura  sprang  up 
with  delight,  she  longed  for  a  play. 

Pen  introduced  -'Shakspeare  you  know,"  because  the  de- 
ceased Pendennis,  as  became  a  man  of  his  character,  professed 
an  uncommon  respect  for  the  bard  of  Avon ,  in  whose  works  he 
safely  said  there  was  more  poetry  than  in  all  ' '  Johnson's  Poets  " 
put  together.  And  though  Mr.  Pendennis  did  not  much  read 
the  works  in  question,  yet  he  enjoined  Pen  to  peruse  them,  and 
often  said  what  pleasure  he  should  have,  when  the  boy  was  of  a 
proper  age,  in  taking  him  and  mother  to  see  some  good  plays  of 
the  immortal  poet. 

The  ready  tears  welled  up  in  the  kind  mother's  eyes  as  she 
remembered  these  speeches  of  the  man  who  was  gone.  She 
kissed  her  son  fondly  and  said  she  would  go.  Laura  jumped 
for  joy.  Was  Pen  happy?  —  was  he  ashamed?  As  he  held  his 
mother  to  him,  he  longed  to  tell  her  aU,  but  he  kept  his  counsel. 
He  would  see  how  his  mother  liked  her ;  the  play  should  be  the 
thing,  and  he  would  try  his  mother  like  Hamlef  s. 

Helen,  in  her  good  humor,  asked  Mr.  Smirke  to  be  of  the 
party.  That  ecclesiastic  had  been  bred  up  by  a  fond  j^arent  at 
Clapham,  who  had  an  objection  to  dramatic  entertainments, 
and  he  had  never  yet  seen  a  play.  But,  Shakspeare  !  —  I)ut  to 
go  with  Mrs.  Pendennis  in  her  carriage,  and  sit  a  whole  night 
by  her  side  I  —  he  could  not  resist  the  idea  of  so  nuich  pleasure, 
and  made  a  feeble  speech,  in  which  he  spoke  of  temptation  and 
gratitude,  and  linally  accepted  Mrs.  Pendennis's  most  kind  offer. 
As  he  spoke  he  gnve  her  a  look,  which  made  her  exceedingly  uu- 


58  PENDENNTS. 

comfortable.  She  had  seeu  that  look  more  than  once,  of  late, 
pursuing  her.  He  became  more  positively  odious  every  day  in 
the  widow's  eyes. 

■  We  are  not  going  to  say  a  great  deal  about  Pen's  coui-tship 
of  Miss  Fotheringa}^,  for  the  reader  has  already  had  a  specimen 
of  her  conversation,  much  of  which  need  surely  not  be  reported. 
Pen  sat  with  her  hour  after  hour,  and  poured  forth  all  his  honest 
boyish  soul  to  her.  Ever^'thing  he  knew,  or  hoped,  or  felt,  or  had 
read,  or  fancied,  he  told  to  her.  He  never  tired  of  talking  and 
longing.  One  after  another,  as  his  thoughts  rose  in  his  hot  eager 
brain,  he  clothed  them  in  words,  and  told  them  to  her.  Her 
part  of  the  tete-a-tete  was  not  to  talk,  but  to  appear  as  if  she 
understood  what  Pen  talked,  and  to  look  exceedingly  handsome 
and  sympathizing.  The  fact  is,  whilst  he  was  making  one  of 
his  tirades,  the  lovely  Emily,  who  could  not  comprehend  a 
tenth  part  of  his  talk,  had  leisure  to  think  about  her  own 
affairs,  and  would  arrange  in  her  own  mind  how  they  should 
dress  the  cold  mutton,  or  how  she  would  turn  the  black  satin, 
or  make  herself  out  of  her  scarf  a  bonnet  like  Miss  Thack- 
thwaite's  new  one,  and  so  forth.  Pen  spouted  Byron  and 
Moore  ;  passion  and  poetry  :  her  business  was  to  throw  up  her 
eyes,  or  fixing  them  for  a  moment  on  his  face,  to  cay,  "  Oh,  'tis 
beautiful !  Ah,  how  exquisite  I  Repeat  those  lines  again." 
And  off  the  boy  went,  and  she  returned  to  her  own  simple 
thoughts  about  the  turned  gown  or  the  hashed  mutton. 

In  fact  Pen's  passion  was  not  long  a  secret  from  the  lovel}' 
Emilv  or  her  father.  Upon  his  second  visit,  his  admiration 
was  quite  evident  to  both  of  them,  and  on  his  departure  the 
old  gentleman  said  to  his  daughter,  as  he  winked  at  her  over 
his  glass  of  grog,  ^  Faith,  Milly  darling,  I  think  ye've  hooked 
that  chap." 

"  Pooh,  'tis  only  a  bo}',  papa  dear,"  Mill}-  remarked.  "  Sure 
he's  but  a  child." 

"  Ye've  hooked 'um  any  how,"  said  the  Captain,  "and  let 
me  tell  ye  he's  not  a  bad  fish.  I  asked  Tom  at  the  George, 
and  Flint,  the  grocer,  where  his  mother  dales  —  fine  fortune  — 
drives  in  her  chariot  —  splendid  park  and  grounds  —  Fairoaks 
Park  —  only  son  —  property  all  his  own  at  twenty-one  —  ye 
might  go  further  and  not  fare  so  well.  Miss  Fotheringay." 

"  Them  boys  are  mostly  talk,"  said  Milly,  seriously.  "Ye 
know  at  Dublin  how  3'e  went  on. about  young  Poldoody,  and 
I've  a  whole  desk  full  of  verses  he  wrote  me  when  he  was  in 
Trinity  College  ;  but  he  went  abroad,  and  his  mother  married 
him  to  an  Englishwoman." 


PENDENN'IS.  59 

*'  Lord  Poldoody  was  a  young  nobkman ;  aud  in  them  it's 
natural :  and  ye  weren't  in  the  position  in  which  ye  are  now, 
Milly  dear.  But  ye  mustn't  encourage  this  young  chap  too 
much,  for,  bedad,  Jacli  Costigan  won't  have  any  thrilling  with 
his  daughter." 

'•  No  more  will  his  daughter,  papa,  you  ma}'  be  sure  of  that" 
Milly  said.  ••  A  little  sip  more  of  the  launch,  —  sure,  'tis  beau- 
tiful. Ye  needn't  be  afraid  about  the  young  chap  —  I  think  I'm 
old  enough  to  take  care  of  myself.  Captain  Costigan." 

So  Pen  used  to  come  day  after  day,  rushing  in  and  galloping 
away,  and  gi'owing  more  wild  about  the  girl  with  ever}'  visit. 
Sometimes  the  Captain  was  present  at  their  meetings  ;  but  hav- 
ing a  perfect  contidence  in  his  daughter,  he  was  more  often  in- 
clined to  leave  the  young  couple  to  themselves,  and  cocked  his 
hat  over  his  eye,  and  strutted  off  on  some  errand  when  Pen  en- 
tered. How  delightful  those  interviews  were  !  The  Captain's 
drawing-room  was  a  Ioav  wainscoted  room,  with  a  large  window 
looking  into  the  Dean's  garden.  There  Pen  sat  and  talked  — 
and  talked  to  Emily,  looking  beautiful  as  she  sat  at  her  work 
—  looking  beautiful  and  calm,  and  the  sunshine  came  streaming 
in  at  the  great  windows,  and  lighted  up  her  superb  face  and 
form.  In  the  midst  of  the  conversation,  the  great  bell  would 
begin  to  boom,  and  he  would  pause  smiling,  and  be  silent  until 
the  sound  of  the  vast  music  died  away  —  or  the  rooks  in  the 
cathedral  elms  would  make  a  great  noise  towards  sunset — -.or 
the  sound  of  the  organ  and  the  choristers  would  come  over  the 
quiet  air,  and  gently  hush  Pen's  talking. 

By  the  way,  it  must  be  said,  that  Miss  Fotheringay,  in  a 
plain  shawl  and  a  close  bonnet  and  veil,  went  to  church  every 
Sunday  of  her  life,  accompanied  by  her  indefatigable  father, 
who  gave  the  responses  in  a  very  rich  and  fine  brogue,  joined 
in  the  psalms  and  chanting,  and  behaved  in  the  most  exemplary 
manner. 

Little  Bows,  the  house-friend  of  the  family,  was  exceedingly 
wroth  at  the  notion  of  JMiss  Fotheringay's  marriage  with  a  strip- 
ling seven  or  eight  years  her  junior.  Bows,  who  was  a  cripple, 
and  owned  that  he  was  a  little  more  deformed  even  than  Bingley 
the  manager,  so  that  he  could  not  appear  on  the  stage,  was  a 
singular  wild  man  of  no  small  talents  and  humor.  Attracted 
first  by  Miss  Fotheringay's  beauty,  he  began  to  teach  her  how 
to  act.  Me  shrieked  out  in  his  cracked  voice  the  parts,  and  his 
pupil  learned  them  front  his  lips  by  rote,  and  repeated  them  in 
her  full  rich  tones.  He  indicated  the  attitudes,  and  set  and 
moved  those  beautiful  arms  of  hers.     Those  who  remember  this 


60  PENDENNIS. 

gruud  actress  on  the  stage  can  recall  how  she  n&(tC  always  pre- 
cisel}'  the  same  gestures,  looks,  and  tones ;  how  she  stood  on 
the  same  plank  of  the  stage  in  the  same  position,  rolled  her 
e3-es  at  the  same  instant  and  to  the  same  degree,  and  wept  with 
precisely  the  same  heart-rending  pathos  and  over  the  same  pa- 
thetic syllable.  And  after  she  had  come  out  trembling  with 
emotion  before  the  audience,  and  looking  so  exhausted  and 
tearful  that  you  fancied  she  would  faint  with  sensibility,  she 
would  gather  up  her  hair  the  instant  she  was  behind  the  curtain, 
and  go  home  to  a  mutton  chop  and  a  glass  of  brown  stout ;  and 
the  harrowing  labors  of  the  da}'  over,  slie  went  to  bed  and  snored 
as  resolutely  and  as  regularly'  as  a  porter. 

Bows  then  was  indignant  at  the  notion  that  his  pupil  should 
throw  her  chances  away  in  life  b}'  bestowing  her  hand  upon  a 
little  country  squire.  As  soon  as  a  London  manager  saw  her 
he  pi'ophesied  that  she  would  get  a  London  engagement,  and  a 
great  success.  The  misfortune  was  that  the  London  managers 
had  seen  her.  She  had  played  in  London  three  years  before, 
and  had  failed  from  utter  stupidity.  Since  then  it  was  that 
Bows  had  taken  her  in  hand  and  taught  her  part  after  part. 
How  he  worked  and  screamed,  and  twisted,  and  repeated  lines 
over  and  over  again,  and  with  what  indomitable  patience  and 
dulness  she  followed  him  !  She  knew  that  he  made  her :  and 
let  herself  be  made.  She  was  not  gi'ateful,  or  ungrateful,  or 
unkind,  or  ill-humored.  She  was  only  stupid  ;  and  Pen  was 
madl}-  in  love  with  her. 

The  post-horses  from  the  Claveri  ng  Arms  arrived  in  due 
time,  and  carried  the  party  to  the  theatre  at  Chatteris,  where 
Pen  was  gratified  in  perceiving  that  a  tolerably  large  audience 
was  assembled.  The  young  gentlemen  from  JBaymouth  had  a 
box,  in  the  front  of  which  sat  Mr.  Foker  and  his  friend  Mr. 
Spavin  splendidly  attired  in  the  most  full-blown  evening  cos- 
itume.  They  saluted  Pen  in  a  cordial  manner,  and  examined 
'his  party,  of  which  they  approved,  for  little  Laura  was  a  pretty 
little  red-cheeked  girl  with  a  quantity  of  shining  brown  ringlets, 
and  Mrs.  Pendennis,  dressed  in  l)lack  velvet  with  the  diamond 
cross  which  she  sported  on  great  occasions,  looked  uncommonly 
handsome  and  majestic.  Behind  these  sat  Mr.  Arthur,  and 
the  gentle  Smirke  with  the  curl  reposing  on  his  fair  forehead, 
and  his  white  tie  in  perfect  order.  He  blushed  to  find  himself 
in  such  a  place  —  but  how  happy  was  he  to  be  there.  He  and 
Mrs.  Pendennis  brought  books  of  "  Hamlet"  with  them  to  fol- 
low the  traged}',  as  is  the  custom  of  honest  country-folks  who 
go  to  a  play  in  state.     Saniuel,  coachman,  gi'oom,  and  gardener 


TENDENNIS.  61 

to  5Irs.  Pcndennis,  took  his  place  in  the  pit,  where  Mr.  Foker's 
man  was  also  A-isible.  It  was  dotted  with  non-commissioned 
officers  of  the  Dragoons,  whose  band.  In*  kind  permission  of 
Colonel  Swallowtail,  were,  as  usual,  in  the  orchestra  ;  and  that 
corpulent  and  distinguished  warrior  himself,  with  his  Waterloo 
medal  and  a  number  of  his  young  men,  made  a  handsome  show 
in  the  boxes. 

"  Who  is  that  odd-looking  person  bowing  to  you,  Arthur?  "' 
Mrs.  Pendennis  asked  of  her  son. 

Pen  blushed  a  great  deal.  "  His  name  is  Captain  Costigau, 
ma'am,"  he  said —  *'  a  Peninsular  officer."  In  fact  it  was  the 
Captain  in  a  new  shoot  of  clothes,  as  he  called  them,  and  with 
a  large  pair  of  white  kid  gloves,  one  of  which  he  waved  to  Pen- 
dennis, whilst  he  laid  the  other  sprawhng  over  his  heart  and 
coat-buttons.  Pen  did  not  say  any  more.  And  how  was  Mrs. 
Pendennis  to  know  that  Mr.  Costigan  was  the  father  of  Miss 
Fotheringay  ? 

Mr.  Hoinbull,  from  London,  was  the  Hamlet  of  the  night, 
Mr.  Bingle}'  modestly  contenting  himself  with  the  part  of  Ho- 
ratio, and  reserving  his  chief  strength  for  WiUiam  in  •'  Black- 
Eyed  Susan,"  which  was  the  second  piece. 

We  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  plaj' :  except  to  say,  that 
Ophelia  looked  lovely,  and  performed  with  admirable  Avild  pa- 
thos :  laughing,  weeping,  gazing  wildly,  waving  her  beautiful 
white  arms,  and  flinging  about  her  snatches  of  flowers  and  songs 
with  the  most  charming  madness.  What  an  opportunity  her 
splendid  black  hair  had  of  tossing  over  her  shoulders  !  She 
made  the  most  charming  corpse  ever  seen  ;  and  while  Hamlet 
and  Laertes  were  battling  in  her  grave,  she  was  looking  out 
from  the  back  scenes  with  some  curiosity  towards  Pen's  box, 
and  the  famih'  party  assembled  in  it. 

There  was  but  one  voice  in  her  praise  there.  Mrs.  Pen- 
dennis was  in  ecstasies  with  her  beaut\'.  Little  Laura  was  be- 
wildered b}'  the  piece,  and  the  Ghost,  and  the  play  within  tlie 
play  (during  which,  as  Hamlet  lay  at  Ophelia's  knee.  Pen  felt 
that  he  would  have  liked  to  strangle  Mr.  HornbuU) ,  but  cried 
out  great  praises  of  that  beautiful  young  creature.  Pen  was 
charmed  with  the  effect  which  she  produced  on  his  mother  — 
and  the  clergj'man,  for  his  part,  was  exceedingly  enthusiastic. 

When  the  curtain  fell  upon  that  group  of  slaughtered  per- 
sonages, who  are  despatched  so  suddenly  at  the  end  of  "•  Ham- 
let." and  whose  demise  astonished  poor  little  Laura  not  a  little, 
there  was  an  immense  shouting  and  applause  from  all  quarters 
of  the  house ;  the  intrepid  Smirke,  violently  excited,  clapped 


62  PENDENNIS. 

his  hands,  and  cried  out  '■'•Bravo,  Bravo,"  as  loud  as  the  Dra- 
goon officers  themselves.  These  were  greatly  moved, — ih 
s'agitaieut  sur  leurs  bancs,  —  to  borrow  a  phrase  from  our  neigh- 
bors. They  were  led  cheering  into  action  by  the  portly  Swallow- 
tail, who  waved  his  cap  —  the  non-commissioned  officers  in  the 
pit,  of  course,  gallant!}'  following  their  chiefs.  There  was  a 
roar  of  bravoes  rang  through  the  house  ;  Pen  bellowing  with  the 
loudest.  "' Fotheringay  !  Fotheringay  !  "  Messrs.  Spavin  and 
Foker  giving  the  view  halloo  from  their  box.  Even  Mrs.  Pen- 
dennis  began  to  wave  about  her  pocket-handkerchief,  and  little 
Laura  danced,  laughed,  clapped,  and  looked  up  at  Pen  with 
wonder. 

Hornbull  led  the  benejiciaire  forward,  amidst  bursts  of  enthu- 
siasm —  and  she  looked  so  handsome  and  radiant,  with  her  hair 
still  over  her  shoulders,  that  Pen  hardly-  could  contain  himself 
for  rapture  :  and  he  leaned  over  his  mother's  chair,  and  shouted, 
and  hurra^'ed,  and  waved  his  hat.  It  was  all  he  could  do  to 
keep  his  secret  from  Helen,  and  not  sa}',  "•  Look  !  That's  the 
woman!  Isn't  she  peerless?  I  tell  you  I  love  her."  But  he 
disguised  these  feelings  under  an  enormous  bellowing  and  hur- 
raying. 

As  for  Miss  Fotheringay  and  her  behavior,  the  reader  is 
referred  to  a  former  page  for  an  account  of  that.  She  went 
through  precisely  the  same  business.  She  surveyed  the  house 
all  round  with  glances  of  gratitude ;  and  ti'embled,  and  almost 
sank  with  emotion,  over  her  favorite  trap-door.  She  seized 
the  flowers  (Foker  discharged  a  prodigious  bouquet  at  her,  and 
even  Smirke  made  a  feeble  sh}'  with  a  rose,  and  blushed  dread- 
full}^  when  it  fell  into  the  pit)  —  she  seized  the  flowers  and 
pressed  them  to  her  swelling  heart  —  &c.  &c.  —  in  a  word  — 
we  refer  the  reader  to  page  37.  Twinkling  in  her  breast  poor 
old  Pen  saw  a  locket  which  he  had  bought  of  Mr.  Nathan  in 
High  Street,  with  the  last  shilling  he  was  worth,  and  a  sover 
eign  borrowed  from  Smirke. 

"■  Black-E^-ed  Susan"  followed,  at  which  sweet  stor}-  our 
gentle-hearted  friends  were  exceedingly  charmed  and  affected  : 
and  in  which  Susan,  with  a  russet  gown  and  a  pink  ribbon  in 
her  cap,  looked  to  the  full  as  lovely  as  Ophelia.  Bingle}-  was 
great  in  William.  GoU,  as  the  Admiral,  looked  like  the  figure- 
head of  a  seventy-four ;  and  Garbetts,  as  Captain  Boldweather, 
a  miscreant  who  forms  a  plan  for  carrying  off  Black-Eyed 
Susan,  and  waving  an  immense  cocked  hat,  sa3's,  "•  Come  what 
way,  he  will  be  the  ruin  of  her "  —  all  these  performed  their 
oarts  with  their  accustomed  talent ;  and  it  was  with  a  sincere 


TENDENXIS.  63 

regret  that  all  our  friends  saw  the  curtain  drop  down  and  end 
that  pretty  and  tender  story. 

If  Pen  had  been  alone  with  his  mother  in  the  carriage  as 
the}'  went  home,  he  would  have  told  her  all  that  night ;  but  he 
sat  on  the  box  in  the  moonshine  smoking  a  cigar  by  the  side  of 
Smirke,  who  warmed  himself  with  a  comforter.  Mr.  Foker's 
tandem  and  lamps  whirled  by  the  sober  old  Clavering  posters, 
as  they  were  a  couple  of  miles  on  their  road  home,  and  Mr. 
Spavin  saluted  Mrs.  Pendennis's  carriage  with  some  considera- 
ble variations  of  Rule  Britannia  on  the  key-bugle. 

It  happened  two  days  after  the  above  gayeties  that  the  Dean 
of  Chatteris  entertained  a  few  select  clerical  friends  at  dinner 
at  his  Deanery  House.  That  they  drank  uncommonly  good 
port  wine,  and  abused  the  Bishop  over  their  dessert,  are  very 
likely  matters  :  but  with  such  we  have  nothing  at  present  to 
do.  Our  friend  Doctor  Portman,  of  Clavering,  was  one  of  the 
Dean's  guests,  and  being  a  gallant  man,  and  seeing  from  his 
place  atthe  mahogany,  the  Dean's  lady  walking  up  and  down 
the  gi-ass,  with  her  children  sporting  around  her,  and  her  pink 
parasol  over  her  lovely  head  —  the  Doctor  stepped  out  of  the 
French  windows  of  the  dining-room  into  the  lawn,  which  skirts 
that  apartment,  and  left  the  other  white  neck-cloths  to  gird  at 
my  Lord  Bishop.  Then  the  Doctor  Avent  up  and  offered  Mrs. 
Dean  his  arm,  and  the}'  sauntered  over  the  ancient  velvet  lawn, 
which  had  been  mowed  and  rolled  for  immemorial  Deans,  in 
that  easy,  quiet,  comfortable  manner,  in  which  people  of  mid- 
dle age  and  good  temper  walk  after  a  good  dinner,  in  a  calm 
golden  summer  evening,  when  the  sun  had  but  just  sunk  behind 
the  enormous  cathedral  towers,  and  the  sickle-shaped  moon  is 
growing  ever}'  instant  brighter  in  the  heavens. 

Now  at  the  end  of  the  Dean's  garden,  there  is,  as  we  have 
stated,  Mrs.  Creed's  house,  and  the  windows  of  the  first-floor 
room  were  open  to  admit  the  pleasant  summer  air.  A  young 
lady  of  six-and-twenty,  whose  eyes  were  perfectly  wide  open, 
and  a  luckless  boy  of  eighteen,  blind  with  love  and  infatuation, 
were  in  that  chamber  together ;  in  which  persons,  as  we  have 
before  seen  them  in  the  same  place,  the  reader  wiU  have  no 
difficulty  in  recognizing  Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis  and  Miss  Cos- 
tigan . 

The  poor  boy  had  taken  the  plunge.  Trembling  with  pas- 
sionate emotion,  his  heart  beating  and  throbbing  fiercely,  tears 
rushing  forth  in  spite  of  him,  his  voice  almost  choking  with 
feeling,  poor  Pen  had  said  those  words  which  he  could  with- 


64  PENDEI^NTS. 

hold  no  more,  and  flung  himself  and  his  whole  store  of  love, 
and  admiration,  and  ardor,  at  the  feet  of  this  mature  beaut3\ 
Is  he  the  first  who  has  done  so?  Have  none  before  or  after 
him  staked  all  their  treasure  of  life,  as  a  savage  does  his  land 
and  possessions  against  a  draught  of  the  fair-skins'  fire-water, 
or  a  couple  of  bauble  eyes  ? 

"Does  3'our  mother  know  of  this,  Arthur'^"  said  Miss 
Fotheringay,  slowly.  lie  seized  her  hand  madly  and  kissed 
it  a  thousand  times.  She  did  not  withdraw  it.  "  Does  the 
old  lady  know  it?"  Miss  Costigan  thought  to  herself,  "well, 
perhaps  she  ma}',"  and  then  she  remembered  what  a  handsome 
diamond  cross  Mrs.  Pendennis  had  on  the  night  of  the  play, 
and  thought,  "  sure  'twill  go  in  the  family." 

"  Calm  3'ourself,  dear  Arthur,"  she  said,  in  her  low  rich 
voice,  and  smiled  sweetly'  and  gravel}'  upon  him.  Then  with 
her  disengaged  hand,  she  put  the  hair  lightl}'  off  his  throbbing 
forehead.  He  was  in  such  a  rapture  and  whirl  of  happiness 
that  he  could  hardl}'  speak.  At  last  he  gasped  out,  "  M}' 
mother  has  seen  you  and  admires  3'ou  beyond  measure.  She 
will  learn  to  love  you  soon:  who  can  do  otherwise?  She  will 
love  you  because  I  do." 

"  'Deed  then,  I  think  3'ou  do,"  says  Miss  Costigan,  pei'haps 
with  a  sort  of  pity  for  Pen. 

Think  she  did !  Of  course  here  Mr.  Pen  went  off  into  a 
rhapsod}'  which,  as  we  have  perfect  command  over  our  own 
feelings,  we  have  no  right  to  overhear.  Let  the  poor  boy 
fling  out  his  simple  heart  at  the  woman's  feet,  and  deal  gently 
with  him.  It  is  best  to  love  wisely,  no  doubt:  but  to  love 
foolishly  is  better  than  not  to  be  able  to  love  at  all.  Some  of 
us  can't:  and  are  proud  of  our  impotence  too. 

At  the  end  of  his  speech.  Pen  again  kissed  the  imperial 
hand  with  rapture  —  and  I  believe  it  was  at  this  very  moment, 
and  while  Mrs.  Dean  and  Doctor  Portman  were  engaged  in 
conversation,  that  young  Master  Ridley  Roset,  her  son,  pulled 
his  mother  l)y  the  back  of  her  capacious  dress  and  said  — 

"  I  say,  ma  !  look  up  there  "  —  and  he  waggled  his  innocent 
head. 

That  was,  indeed,  a  view  from  the  Dean's  garden  such  as 
seldom  is  seen  by  Deans  —  or  is  written  in  Chapters.  There 
was  poor  Pen  performing  a  salute  upon  the  rosy  fingers  of  his 
charmer,  who  received  the  embrace  with  perfect  calmness  and 
good-humor.  Master  Ridley  looked  up  and  grinned,  little  Miss 
Rosa  looked  at  her  brother,  and  opened  the  mouth  of  astonish- 
ment.    Mrs.  Deun's  countenance  defied  expression,  and  as  for 


PENDENNIS.  65 

Dr.  Portman,  when  he  beheld  the  scene,  and  saw  his  prime 
favorite  and  dear  pupil  Pen,  he  stood  mute  with  rage  and 
wonder. 

Mrs.  Haller  spied  the  party  below  at  the  same  moment,  and 
gave  a  start  and  a  laugh.  •*  Sure  there's  somebod}'  in  the 
Dean's  garden,"  she  cried  out ;  and  withdrew  with  perfect 
calmness,  whilst  Pen  darted  awa^-  with  his  face  glowing  like 
coals.  The  garden  party  had  re-entered  the  house  when  he 
ventured  to  look  out  again.  The  siclde  moon  was  blazing 
bright  in  the  heavens  then,  the  stars  were  glittering,  the  bell 
of  the  cathedral  tolling  nine,  the  Dean's  guests  (all  save  one, 
who  had  called  for  his  horse  Dumpling,  and  ridtlen  off  early) 
were  partaking  of  tea  and  buttered  cakes  in  Mrs.  Dean's  draw- 
ing-room—  when  Pen  took  leave  of  Miss  Costigan. 

Pen  arrived  at  home  in  due  time  afterwards,  and  was  going 
to  slip  off  to  bed,  for  the  poor  lad  was  greatly  worn  and  agi- 
tated, and  his  high-strung  nerves  had  been  at  almost  a  mad- 
dening pitch  —  when  a  summons  came  to  him  by  John  the  old 
footman,  whose  countenance  bore  a  ver^'  ominous  look,  that 
his  mother  must  see  him  below. 

On  this  he  tied  on  his  neck-cloth  again,  and  wewt  down 
stairs  to  the  drawing-room.  Tliere  sat  not  only  his  mother, 
but  her  friend,  the  Reverend  Doctor  Portman.  Helen's  face 
looked  very  pale  by  the  light  of  the  lamp  —  the  Doctor's 
was  flushed,  on  the  contrary,  and  quivering  with  anger  and 
emotion. 

Pen  saw  at  once  that  there  was  a  crisis,  and  that  there  had 
been  a  discovery.     "  Now  for  it,"  he  thought. 

"Where  have  3'ou  been,  Arthur?"  Helen  said  in  a  trembling 
voice. 

"  How  can  you  look  that  —  that  dear  lady,  and  a  Christian 
clergj'man  in  the  face,  sir?"  bounced  out  the  Doctor,  in  spite 
of  Helen's  pale,  appealing  looks.  "Where  has  he  been? 
Where  his  mother's  son  should  have  been  ashamed  to  go. 
For  your  mother's  an  angel,  sir,  an  angel.  How  dare  you 
bring  pollution  into  her  house,  and  make  that  spotless  crea- 
ture wretched  with  the  thoughts  of  ^our  crime ? " 

"  Sir  !  "  said  Pen. 

"  Don't  deny  it,  sir,"  roared  the  Doctor.  "  Don't  add  lies, 
sir,  to  your  other  infam.}'.  I  saw  you  myself,  sir.  I  saw  you 
from  the  Dean's  garden.  I  saw  30U  kissing  the  hand  of  that 
infernal  painted  "  — 

"Stop,"  Pen  said,  clapping  his  fist  on  the  table,  till  the 
lamp  flickered  up  and  shook,  "  I  am  a  very  young  man,  buS 


66  PENDENNIS. 

you  will  please  to  remember  that  1  am  a  gentleman — I  will 
hear  no  abuse  of  that  lady." 

"  Lad}',  sh',"  cried  the  Doctor,  '■'•that  a  lady  —  you  —  you 
—  3'ou  stand  in  your  mother's  presence  and  call  that  —  that 
woman  a  lady  !  "  — 

"  In  anybody's  presence,"  shouted  out  Pen.  "  She  is  worth}' 
of  any  place.  She  is  as  pure  as  an}'  woman.  She  is  as  good 
as  she  is  beautiful.  If  any  man  but  you  insulted  her,  I  would 
tell  him  what  I  thought ;  but  as  you  are  my  oldest  friend,  I 
suppose  you  have  the  privilege  to  doubt  of  my  honor." 

"No,  no.  Pen,  dearest  Pen,"  cried  out  Helen  in  an  excess 
of  joy.  "I  told,  I  told  you.  Doctor,  he  was  not — not  what 
you  thought :  "  and  the  tender  creature  coming  trembling  for- 
ward flung  herself  on  Pen's  shoulder. 

Pen  felt  himself  a  man,  and  a  match  for  all  the  Doctors  in 
Doctordom.  He  was  glad  this  explanation  had  come.  "You 
saw  how  beautiful  she  was,"  he  said  to  his  mother,  with  a 
soothing,  protecting  air,  like  Hamlet  with  Gertrude  in  the 
play.  "  I  tell  you,  dear  mother,  she  is  as  good.  When  you 
know  her  you  will  say  so.  She  is  of  all,  except  you,  the  sim- 
plest, the  kindest,  the  most  affectionate  of  women.  Why 
should  she  not  be  on  the  stage  ?  —  She  maintains  her  father 
by  her  labor." 

"  Drunken  old  reprobate,"  growled  the  Doctor,  but  Pen  did 
not  hear  or  heed. 

"  If  you  could  see,  as  I  have,  how  orderly  her  life  is,  how 
pure  ancl  pious  her  whole  conduct,  you  would  —  as  1  do  —  yes, 
as  I  do"  —  (with  a  savage  look  at  the  Doctor)  —  "  spurn  the 
slanderer  who  dared  to  do  her  wrong.  Her  father  was  an 
officer,  and  distinguished  himself  in  Spain.  He  was  a  friend  of 
His  Royal  Highness  the  Duke  of  Kent,  and  is  intimately  known 
to  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  and  some  of  the  first  officers  of  our 
army.  He  has  met  my  uncle  Arthur  at  Lord  Hill's,  he  thinks. 
His  own  family  is  one  of  the  most  ancient  and  respectable  in 
Ireland,  and  indeed  is  as  good  as  our  own.  The  —  the  Costi- 
gans  were  kings  of  Ireland." 

"  W^hy,  God  bless  ray  soul,"  shrieked  out  the  Doctor,  hardly 
knowing  whether  to  burst  with  rage  or  laughter,  "you  don't 
mean  to  say  you  want  to  marry  her  ?  " 

Pen  put  on  his  most  princely  air.  "  What  else.  Dr.  Port- 
man,"  he  said,  "  do  you  suppose  would  be  my  desire?  " 

Utterly  foiled  in  his  attack,  and  knocked  down  by  this  sud- 
den lunge  of  Pen's,  the  Doctor  could  only  gasp  out,  "  Mrs. 
Feudennis,  ma'am,  send  for  the  Major." 


TENDENNIS.  G'l 

"  Seud  for  the  Major?  witii  all  my  heart,"  said  Arthur, 
Prince  of  Pendennls  and  Grand  Duke  of  Fairoaks,  with  a  mosit 
superb  wave  of  the  hand.  And  the  colloquy  terminated  b}-  tl^e 
writing  of  those  two  letters  which  were  laid  on  Major  Peii- 
dennis's  breakfast-table,  in  London,  at  the  commencement  of 
Prince  Arthur's  most  veracious  history. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

m  WHICH   THE    MAJOR   MAKES    HIS    APPEARANCE. 

Our  acquaintance,  Major  Arthur  Pendennls,  arrived  in  due 
time  at  Fairoaks,  after  a  dreaiy  night  passed  in  the  mail-coach, 
where  a  stout  fellow-passenger,  swelling  preternaturally  with 
gi'eat-coats.  had  crowded  him  into  a  corner,  and  kept  him 
awake  by  snoring  indecently  :  where  a  widow  lady,  opposite, 
had  not  only  shut  out  the  fresh  air  by  closing  all  the  windows 
of  the  vehicle,  but  had  filled  the  Interior  with  fumes  of  Jamaica 
rum  and  water,  which  she  sucked  perpetuallv  from  a  bottle  in 
her  reticule  ;  where,  whenever  he  caught  a  brief  moment  of 
sleep,  the  twanging  of  the  horn  at  the  turnpike  gates,  or  the 
scuffling  of  his  huge  neighbor  wedging  him  closer  and  closer,  or 
the  play  of  the  widow's  feet  on  his  own  tender  toes,  speedil}' 
woke  up  the  poor  gentleman  to  the  horrors  and  realities  of  life 
—  a  life  which  has  passed  aAvay  now,  and  become  impossible, 
and  only  lives  in  fond  memories.  Plight  miles  an  hour,  for 
twent}'  or  five-and-twent}'  hours,  a  tight  maU-coach,  a  hard 
seat,  a  gouty  tendency,  a  perpetual  change  of  coaclmien  grum- 
bling because  you  did  not  fee  them  enough,  a  fellow-passenger 
partial  to  spirits-and- water,  —  who  has  not  borne  these  evils  in 
the  jolly  old  times?  and  how  could  people  travel  under  such 
difficulties?  And  yet  the}'  did.  Night  and  morning  passed, 
and  the  Major,  with  a  yellow  face,  a  bristl}'  beard,  a  wig  out 
of  curl,  and  strong  rheumatic  griefs  shooting  through  various 
limbs  of  his  uneas}-  body,  descended  at  the  little  lodge-gato 
at  Fairoaks,  where  the  porteress  and  gardener's  wife  rever- 
entlall}'  greeted  him  ;  and,  still  more  respectful!}',  Mr.  Morgan, 
his  man. 

Helen  was  on  the  look-out  for  this  expected  guest,  and  saiv 
him  from  her  window.  l>nt  slie  did  not  come  fonvard  imraedi- 
n,tely  to  greet  him.    8he  knew  the  Major  did  not  like  to  be  seeu 


68  J'ENDENNIS. 

at  a  surprise,  and  required  a  little  preparation  before  he  cared 
to  be  visible.  Pen,  when  a  boy,  had  incurred  sad  disgrace,  by 
carrying  oft'  from  the  Major's  dressing-taljle  a  Utile  morocco  box, 
which  it  must  be  confessed  contained  the  Major's  back  teeth, 
which  he  naturally  would  leave  out  of  his  jaws  in  a  jolting  mail- 
coach,  and  without  which  he  would  not  choose  to  appear.  Mor- 
gan, his  man,  made  a  m3'stery  of  mystery  of  his  wigs  :  curling 
them  in  pri\ate  plac(\s  :  introducing  them  privily  to  his  master's 
room  ;  —  nor  witliout  his  head  of  hair  would  the  Major  care  to 
show  himself  to  any  member  of  his  family,  or  any  acquaintance. 
He  went  to  his  apartment  then  and  supplied  these  deficiencies  ; 
he  groaned,  and  moaned,  and  wheezed,  and  cursed  Morgan 
through  his  toilet,  as  an  old  buck  will,  who  has  been  up  all 
night  with  a  rheumatism,  and  has  a  long  duty  to  perform.  And 
finally  being  belted,  curled,  and  set  straight,  he  descended  upon 
the  di'awing-room,  with  a  grave  majestic  air,  such  as  befitted 
one  who  was  at  once  a  man  of  business  and  a  man  of  fashion. 

Pen  was  not  there,  however ;  only  Helen,  and  little  Laura 
sewing  at  her  knees ;  and  to  whom  he  never  presented  more 
than  a  forefinger,  as  he  did  on  this  occasion  after  saluting  his 
sister-in-law.  Laura  took  the  finger  trembling  and  dropped  it 
■ —  and  then  fled  out  of  the  room.  Major  Pendennis  did  not 
want  to  keep  her,  or  indeed  to  have  her  in  the  house  at  all,  and 
had  his  private  reason  for  disapproving  of  her ;  which  we  may- 
mention  on  some  future  occasion.  Meanwhile  Laura  disap- 
peared, and  wandered  about  the  premises  seeking  for  Pen  : 
whom  she  presently  found  in  the  orchaixl,  pacing  up  and  down 
a  walk  there  in  earnest  conversation  with  Mr.  Smirke.  He  was 
so  occupied  that  he  did  not  hear  Laura's  clear  voice  singing  out, 
until  Smirke  pulled  him  b}'  the  coat,  and  jDointed  towards  her 
as  she  came  running. 

She  ran  up  and  put  lier  hand  into  his.  "Come  in,  Pen," 
she  said,  "  there's  somebody  come  ;  uncle  Arthur's  come." 

"  He  is,  is  he?"  said  Pen,  and  she  felt  him  grasp  her  little 
hand.  He  looked  round  at  Smivko  with  uncommon  fierceness, 
as  much  as  to  say,  1  am  ready  for  him  or  any  man  —  Mr.  Smirke 
cast  up  his  eyes  as  usual,  and  heaved  a  gentle  sigh. 

"  Lead  on,  Laura,"  Pen  said,  with  a  half  fierce,  haif  comic 
air — "lead  on,  and  say  I  wait  upon  my  uncle."  But  he  was 
laughing  in  order  to  hide  a  great  anxiety  ;  and  was  screwing  his 
com'age  inwardly  to  face  the  ordeal  which  he  knew  was  now 
before  him. 

Pen  had  taken  Smirke  into  his  confidence  in  the  last  two 
days,  and  after  the  outbreak  attendant  on  the  discovery  of  Doc- 


PENDENNIS.  69 

tor  Portman,  and  during  every  one  of  those  forty-eight  hours 
which  he  had  passed  in  Mr.  Smirke's  societ}',  had  done  noth- 
ing but  talk  to  his  tutor  about  Miss  Fotheringay  —  Miss  Emily 
Fotheringay  —  Emily,  &c.,  to  all  which  talli:  Srairke  listened 
without  dirticulty,  for  he  was  in  love  himself,  most  anxious  in 
all  things  to  propitiate  Pen.  and  indeed  very  much  himself 
enraptured  by  the  personal  charms  of  this  goddess,  whose  like, 
never  haviug  been  before  at  a  theatrical  representation,  he  had 
not  beheld  until  now.  Pen's  lire  and  volubility,  his  hot  elo- 
quence and  rich  poetical  tropes  and  figures,  his  maul}-  heart, 
kind,  ardent,  and  hopeful,  refusing  to  see  any  defects  in  the  per- 
son he  loved,  any  difticulties  in  their  position  that  he  might  not 
overcome,  had  half  convinced  Mr.  Smirke  that  the  arrangement 
proposed  by  Mr.  Pen  was  a  very  feasible  and  prudent  one,  and 
that  it  would  be  a  great  comfort  to  have  Emily  settled  at  Fair- 
oaks,  Captain  Costigan  in  the  yellow  room,  established  for  life 
there,  and  Pen  married  at  eighteen. 

And  it  is  a  fact  that  in  these  two  days,  the  boy  had  almost 
talked  over  his  mother,  too  ;  had  parried  all  her  objections  one 
after  another  with  that  indignant  good  sense  which  is  often  the 
perfection  of  absurdity- ;  and  had  brought  her  almost  to  acqui- 
esce in  the  belief  that  if  the  marriage  was  doomed  in  heaven, 
why  doomed  it  was  —  that  if  the  young  woman  was  a  good  per- 
son, it  was  all  that  she  for  her  part  had  to  ask ;  and  rather  to 
dread  the  arrival  of  the  guardian  uncle  who  she  foresaw  would 
regard  Mr.  Pen's  marriage  in  a  manner  very  different  to  that 
simple,  romantic,  honest,  and  utterly  absurd  way,  in  which  the 
widow  was  alread}'  disposed  to  look  at  questions  of  this  sort. 
Helen  Pendennis  was  a  country-bred  woman,  and  the  book  of 
life,  as  she  interpreted  it,  told  her  a  different  story  to  that  page 
which  is  read  in  cities.  It  pleased  her  (with  that  dismal  pleas- 
ure which  the  idea  of  sacrificing  themselves  gives  to  certain 
women),  to  think  of  the  day  when  she  would  give  up  all  to  Pen, 
and  he  should  bring  his  wife  home,  and  she  would  surrender 
the  ke3's  and  the  best  bedroom,  and  go  and  sit  at  the  side  of 
the  table,  and  see  him  happy.  What  did  she  want  in  life,  but 
to  see  the  lad  prosper?  As  an  empress  was  certainly  not  too 
good  for  him,  and  would  be  honored  by  becoming  Mrs.  Pen  ; 
so  if  he  selected  humble  Esther  instead  of  Queen  Vashti,  she 
would  be  content  with  his  lordship's  choice.  Never  mind  how 
lowl}-  or  poor  the  person  might  be  who  was  to  enjoy  that  pro- 
digious honor,  Mrs.  Pendennis  was  willing  to  bow  before  her 
and  welcome  her,  and  yield  her  up  the  first  place.  But  an 
actress  —  a  mature  woman,  who  had  long  ceased  blushing  ex- 


70  PENDENNIS. 

cept  with  rouge,  as  she  stood  nuclei-  t!io  eager  glances  of  thou- 
sands of  eyes  —  an  illiterate  and  ill-bred  person,  ver}'  likelj', 
who  must  have  lived  with  light  associates,  and  have  heard 
doubtful  conversation  —  Oh  !  it  was  hard  that  such  a  one  should 
be  chosen,  and  that  the  matron  should  be  deposed  to  give  place 
to  such  a  Sultana. 

All  these  doubts  the  widow  laid  before  Pen  during  the  two 
days  which  had  of  necessity  to  elapse  ere  the  uncle  came  down  ; 
but  he  met  them  with  that  happy  frankness  and  ease  which 
a  young  gentleman  exhibits  at  his  time  of  life,  and  routed  hfs 
mother's  objections  with  intinite  satisfaction  to  himself.  Miss 
Costigan  was  a  paragon  of  virtue  and  dehcacy  !  she  was  as 
sensitive  as  the  most  timid  maiden  ;  she  was  as  pure  as  the 
unsullied  snow  ;  she  had  the  finest  manners,  the  most  gracefrl 
wit  and  genius,  the  most  charming  refinement,  and  justness  c  f 
appreciation  in  all  matters  of  taste  ;  she  had  the  most  admirable 
temper  and  devotion  to  her  father,  a  good  old  gentleman  cA 
high  family  and  fallen  fortunes,  who  had  hved,  however,  witl 
the  best  society  in  Europe  :  he  was  in  no  hurry,  and  could 
attbrd  to  wait  any  time  —  till  he  was  one-and-twenty.  But 
he  felt  (and  here  his  face  assumed  an  awful  and  harrowing; 
solemnity)  that  he  was  engaged  in  the  one  onl}-  passion  of  his 
life,  and  that  DEATH  alone  could  close  it. 

Helen  told  him,  with  a  sad  smile  and  a  shake  of  the  head, 
that  people  sur\ived  these  passions,  and  as  for  long  engage- 
ments contracted  between  very  young  men  and  old  women  — 
she  knew  an  instance  in  her  own  family  — ■  Laura's  poor  father 
was  an  instance  —  how  fatal  they  were. 

Mr.  Pen,  however,  was  resolved  that  death  must  be  his 
doom  in  case  of  disappointment,  and  rather  than  this  —  rather 
than  baulk  him  in  fact  —  this  lady  would  have  submitted  to  any 
sacrifice  or  personal  pain,  and  would  have  gone  down  on  hei 
knees  and  have  kissed  the  feet  of  a  Hottentot  daughter-in-law. 

Arthur  knew  his  power  over  the  widow,  and  the  3'oung 
tyrant  was  touched  whilst  he  exercised  it.  In  those  two  days 
he  brought  her  almost  into  submission,  and  patronized  her 
very  kindly  ;  and  he  passed  one  evening  with  the  lovely  pic'- 
maker  at  Chatteris,  in  which  he  bragged  of  his  influence  over 
his  mother ;  and  he  spent  the  other  night  in  composing  a  most 
flaming  and  conceited  copy  of  verses  to  his  divinity,  in  which 
he  vowed,  like  Montrose,  that  he  would  make  her  famous  with 
his  sword  and  glorious  by  his  pen,  and  that  he  would  \o\e  her 
as  no  mortal  woman  had  been  adored  since  the  creation  of 
womankind. 


PENDENNIS.  71 

It  was  on  that  night,  long  after  midnight,  that  wakeful 
Helen,  passing  stealthily  by  her  son's  door,  saw  a  light  stream- 
ing throsgh  the  chink  of  the  door  into  the  dark  passage,  and 
heard  Pen  tossing  and  tumbling  and  mnmbUng  verses  in  his 
bed.  .Slie  waited  outside  for  a  while,  anxiously  listening  to 
him.  In  infantile  fevers  and  early  boyish  illnesses,  many  a 
night  before,  the  kind  soul  had  so  kept  wateii.  She  turned  the 
lock  very  softly  now,  and  went  in  so  gently,  that  Pen  for  a 
moment  did  not  see  her.  His  face  was  turned  from  her.  His 
papers  on  his  desk  were  scattered  about,  and  more  were  l^'ing 
on  the  bed  round  him.  He  was  biting  a  pencil  and  thinking  of 
rhymes  and  all  sorts  of  follies  and  passions.  He  was  Hamlet 
jumping  into  Oi)helia's  grave  :  he  Avas  the  Stranger  taking  Mrs. 
Haller  to  his  arms,  beautiful  Mrs.  Haller,  Avith  the  raven  ringlets 
falling  over  her  shoulders.  Despair  and  Byron,  Thomas  Moore 
and  all  the  Loves  of  the  Angels,  Waller  and  Hcrrick,  Beranger 
and  all  the  love-songs  he  had  ever  read,  were  working  and 
seething  in  this  young  gentleman's  mind,  and  he  was  at  the 
very  height  and  paroxysm  of  the  imaginative  phrensy,  when 
his  mother  found  him. 

"  Arthur,"  said  the  mother's  soft  silver  voice  :  and  he  started 
up  and  turned  round.  He  clutched  some  of  the  papers  and 
pushed  them  under  the  pillow. 

"Why  don't  ,you  go  to  sleep,  my  dear?"  she  said,  with  a 
sweet  tender  smile,  and  sat  down  on  the  bed  and  took  one  of 
his  hot  hands. 

Pen  looked  at  her  wildly  for  an  instant —  "  I  couldn't  sleep," 
he  said  —  "I  —  I  was  —  I  was  writing."  —  And  liereupon  he 
flung  his  arms  round  her  neck  and  said,  "0  mother!  1  love 
her,  I  love  her !  "  —  How  could  such  a  kind  soul  as  that  help 
soothing  and  pitying  him?  The  gentle  creature  did  her  best: 
and  thought  with  a  strange  wonderment  and  tenderness,  that  it 
was  only  yesterday-  tliat  he  was  a  child  in  that  bed :  and  how 
she  used  to  come  and  sa}^  her  prayers  over  it  before  he  woke 
upon  holiday  mornings. 

The}'  were  very  grand  verses,  no  doubt,  although  Miss 
Fotheringa}'  did  not  understand  them  ;  but  old  Cos,  Avith  a 
wink  and  a  knowing  finger  on  his  nose,  said,  "  Put  them  up 
Avith  th'  bother  letthers,  Milly  darling.  Poldoody's  pomes  was 
nothing  to  this."     So  Millv  locked  up  the  manuscripts. 

When  then,  the  Major  being  dressed  and  presentable,  pre- 
sented himself  to  Mrs.  Pendennis,  he  found  in  the  course  of 
ten  minutes'  colloquy  that  the  poor  widow  was  not  merely  dis-> 
tressed  at  the  idea  of  the  marriage  contemplated  by  Pen,  but 


72  PENDENNIS. 

actually  more  distressed  at  thinking  that  the  boy  himself  was 
unhappy  about  it,  and  that  his  uncle  and  he  should  have 
an}'  violent  altercation  on  the  subject.  She  besought  Major 
Pendennis  to  be  very  gentle  with  Arthur:  "He  has  a  very 
high  spirit,  and  will  not  brook  unkind  words,"  she  hinted. 
' '  Doctor  Portman  spoke  to  him  rather  roughly  —  and  I  must 
own  unjustl}^  the  other  night  —  for  my  dearest  boy's  honor  is 
as  high  as  any  mother  can  desire  —  but  Pen's  answer  quite 
frightened  me,  it  was  so  indignant.  Recollect  he  is  a  man  now  ; 
and  be  very  —  very  cautious,"  said  the  widow,  laying  a  fair 
long  hand  on  the  Major's  sleeve. 

He  took  it  uj),  kissed  it  gallanth',  and  looked  in  her  alarmed 
face  with  wonder,  and  a  scorn  which  he  was  too  polite  to 
show.  '•'•  JBon  Dieu!"  thought  the  old  negotiator,  "the  boy 
has  actually  talked  the  woman  round,  and  she'd  get  him  a  wife 
as  she  would  a  toy  if  Master  cried  for  it.  Why  are  there  no 
such  things  as  leJlres-de-cachet  —  and  a  Bastille  for  joung  fellows 
of  family  ? "  The  Major  lived  in  such  good  company  that  he 
might  be  excused  for  feeling  like  an  Earl.  —  He  kissed  the 
widow's  timid  hand,  pressed  it  in  both  his,  and  laid  it  down  on 
the  table  with  one  of  his  own  over  it,  as  he  smiled  and  looked 
her  in  the  face. 

"  Confess,"  said  he,  "  now,  that  you  are  thinking  how  you 
possibly  can  make  it  up  to  your  conscience  to  let  the  bo^'  have 
his  own  way." 

She  blushed,  and  was  moved  in  the  usual  manner  of  females. 
"I  am  tliinking  that  he  is  verj^  unhappy  —  and  I  am  too"  — 

"To  contradict  him  or  to  let  him  have  his  own  wish?" 
asked  the  other ;  and  added,  with  great  comfort  to  his  inward 
self,  "I'md— d  if  he  shall." 

"To  think  that  he,  should  have  formed  so  foolish  and  cruel 
and  fatal  an  attachment,"  the  widow  said,  "  which  can  but  end 
in  pain  whatever  be  the  issue." 

"  The  issue  shan't  be  marriage,  my  dear  sister,"  the  Major 
said  resolutely.  "We're  not  going  to  have  a  Pendennis,  the 
head  of  the  house,  marry  a  strolling  mountebank  from  a  booth. 
No,  no,  we  won't  marry  into  Greenwich  Fair,  ma'am." 

"If  the  match  is  broken  suddenly  ofl",''  the  widow  inter- 
posed, "  I  don't  know  what  may  be  the  consequence.  I  know 
Arthur's  ardent  temper,  the  intensity  of  his  affections,  the 
agony  of  his  pleasures  and  disappointments,  and  I  tremble  at 
this  one  if  it  must  be.  Indeed,  indeed,  it  must  not  come  on 
him  too  suddenly." 

"My  dear  madam,"  the  Major  said,  with  an  air  of  the 


J 


YOUTH  BETWEEN  PLEASURE  AND  DUTY 

Thackeray,  Vol.  Three 


PENDENXIS.  73 

deepest  commiseration,  '"I've  no  doubt  Arthur  will  have  to 
suflor  confoundedh-  before  be  gets  over  the  little  disappoint- 
ment. But  is  he,  think  30U,  the  only  person  who  has  been  so 
rendered  miserable  ?  " 

''No,  indeed,"  said  Helen,  holding  down  her  eyes.  She 
was  thinking  of  her  own  case,  and  was  at  that  moment  seven- 
teen again,  and  most  miserable. 

''I,  mjself,"  whispered  her  brother-in-law,  "have  under- 
gone a  disappointment  in  early  life.  A  young  woman  with 
fifteen  thousand  pounds,  niece  to  an  Earl  —  most  accomplished 
creature  —  a  third  of  her  mone\'  would  have  run  up  m}'  promo- 
tion in  no  time,  and  I  should  have  been  a  lieutenant-colonel  at 
thirty  :  but  it  might  not  be.  I  was  but  a  penniless  heutenant : 
her  parents  interfered  :  and  I  embarked  for  India,  where  I  had 
the  honor  of  being  secretary-  to  Lord  Buckley,  when  Com- 
mander-in-Chief—  without  her.  What  happened  ?  We  returned 
our  letters,  sent  back  our  locks  of  hair  (the  Major  here  passed  his 
fingers  through  his  wig),  we  suffered  —  but  we  recovered.  She 
is  now  a  baronet's  wife  with  thirteen  grown-up  children  ;  altered, 
it  is  true,  in  person  ;  but  her  daughters  remind  me  of  what  she 
was,  and  the  third  is  to  be  presented  earl\-  next  week." 

Helen  did  not  answer.  She  was  still  thinking  of  old  times. 
I  suppose  if  one  lives  to  be  a  hundred,  there  are  certain  pas- 
sages of  one's  early  life  whereof  the  recollection  will  always 
carr}-  us  back  to  youth  again,  and  that  Helen  was  thinking  of 
one  of  these. 

'•Look  at  my  own  brother,  my  dear  creature,"  the  Major 
continued  gallantly:  "  he  himself,  you  know,  had  a  little  dis- 
appointment when  he  started  in  the  —  the  medical  profession  — 
an  eligible  opportunitj'  presented  itself.  Miss  Balls,  I  remem- 
ber the  name,  was  daughter-  of  an  apoth  —  a  practitioner  in 
very  large  practice ;  my  brother  had  very  nearly  succeeded 
in  his  suit.  —  But  difficulties  arose  :  disappointments  super- 
vened, and  —  and  I  am  sure  he  had  no  reason  to  regret  the 
disappointment  which  gave  him  this  hand,"  said  the  Major, 
and  he  once  more  politel}'  pressed  Helen's  fingers. 

"  Those  marriages  between  people  of  such  different  rank 
and  age,"  said  Helen,  "are  sad  things.  1  have  known  them 
produce  a  great  deal  of  unhappiness. — Laura's  father,  m3' 
cousin,  who  —  who  was'  brought  up  with  me"  —  she  added,  in 
a.  low  voice,  "  was  an  instance  of  that." 

"  Most  injudicious,"  cut  in  the  Major.  ''  I  don't  know  an}*- 
thing  more  painful  than  for  a  man  to  marry  his  superior  in  age 
or  his  inferior  in  station.  Fanc}^  marrying  a  woman  of  a  low 
rank  of  life,  and  having^  your  house  filled  with  her  confounded 


74  PEXDENNIS. 

tag-rag-and-bobtail  reliitions  !  Fanc}'  your  wife  attached  to  a 
mother  who  dropped  her  h's,  or  called  Maria  Marire  !  How 
are  you  to  introduce  her  into  societ}?  M}'  dear  Mrs,  Pen- 
dennis,  I  will  name  no  names,  but  in  the  very  best  circles  of 
London  society  I  have  seen  men  suffering  the  most  excruciating 
agony,  I  have  known  them  to  be  cut,  to  be  lost  utterly,  from 
^■Jie  vulgarity  of  their  wives'  connections.  What  did  Lad} 
Snapperton  do  last  year  at  her  dejeuner  dansant  after  the  Bo- 
hemian Ball?  She  told  Lord  Brouncker  that  he  might  bring 
his  daughters  or  send  them  with  a  proper  chaperon,  but  that 
she  would  not  receive  Lad}'  Brouncker :  who  was  a  druggist's 
daughter,  or  some  such  thing,  and  as  Tom  Wagg  remarked  of 
her,  never  wanted  medicine  certainly,  for  she  never  had  an  h 
in  her  life.  Good  Ged,  what  would  have  been  the  trifling  pang 
of  a  separation  in  the  first  instance  to  the  enduring  infliction  of 
a  constant  misalliance  and  intercourse  with  low  people?  " 

"•What,  indeed!"  said  Helen,  dimly  disposed  towards 
laughter,  but  yet  checking  the  inclination,  because  she  remem- 
bered in  what  prodigious  respect  her  deceased  husband  held 
Major  Pendennis  and  his  stories  of  the  great  world. 

"Then  this  fatal  woman  is  ten  3'ears  older  than  that  silly 
3^oung  scapegrace  of  an  Arthur.  What  happens  in  such  cases, 
my  dear  creature  ?  I  don't  mind  teUing  you  now  we  are  alone  : 
that  in  the  highest  state  of  society,  miser}',  undeviating  misery, 
is  the  result.  Look  at  Lord  Clodworthy  come  into  a  room  with 
his  wife  —  why,  good  Ged,  she  looks  like  Clodworthy's  mother. 
What's  the  case  between  Lord  and  Lady  Willowbank,  whose 
love  match  was  notorious  ?  He  has  alread}'  cut  her  down  twice 
when  she  has  hanged  herself  out  of  jealousy  for  Mademoiselle 
de  Sainte  Cunegonde,  the  dancer ;  and  mark  my  words,  good 
Ged,  one  day  he'll  not  cut  the  old  woman  down.  No,  my  dear 
madam,  yon  are  not  in  the  world,  but  I  am  :  you  are  a  little 
romantic  and  sentimental  (you  know  you  are  —  women  with 
those  large  beautiful  e^'es  always  are)  ;  j'ou  must  leave  this 
matter  to  my  experience.  Marr}'  this  woman !  Marry  at 
eighteen  an  actress  of  thirt}^  —  bah  bah  !  —  I  would  as  soon  he 
sent  into  the  kitchen  and  married  the  cook." 

"I  know  the  evils  of  premature  engagements,"  sighed  out 
Helen  :  and  as  she  has  made  this  aUusion  no  less  than  thrice  in 
tne  course  of  the  above  conversation,  and  seems  to  be  so  op- 
pressed with  the  notion  of  long  engagements  and  unequal  mar- 
riages, and  as  the  circumstance  we  have  to  relate  will  explain 
what  perhaps  some  persons  are  anxious  to  know,  namely  who 
little  Laura  is,  who  has  a[)peared  more  than  once  before  us,  it 
will  be  as  well  to  clear  up  these  points  in  another  chapter. 


PENDENNIS-  73 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

IK    WniCH    PEN    IS    KEPT     WAITING    AT   THE    DOOR,    WHILE    THH 
READER    IS    INFORMED    WHO    LITILE    LAURA    WAS, 

Once  upon  a  time,  then,  there  was  a  young  gentleman  of 
Cambridge  University  who  came  to  pass  the  long  vacation  at 
the  village  where  young  Helen  Thistlewood  w^as  living  with  her 
mother,  the  widow  of  the  lieutenant  slain  at  Copenhagen.  This 
gentleman,  whose  name  was  the  Reverend  Francis  Bell,  was 
nephew  to  Mrs.  Thistlewood,  and  by  consequence,  own  cousin 
to  Miss  Helen,  so  that  it  was  verv  right  that  he  should  take 
lodgings  in  his  aunt's  house,  who  lived  in  a  very  small  way  ; 
and  there  he  passed  the  long  vacation,  reading  with  three  or 
four  pupils  who  accompanied  him  to  the  village.  Mr.  Bell  was 
fellow  of  a  college,  and  famous  in  the  Universit}'  for  his  learn' 
ing  and  skill  as  a  tutor. 

His  two  kinswomen  understood  prett}'  early  that  the  rever- 
end gentleman  was  engaged  to  be  married,  and  was  only  wait- 
ing for  a  college  living  to  enable  him  to  fulfil  his  engagement. 
His  intended  bride  w^as  the  daughter  of  another  parson,  who 
had  acted  as  Mr.  Bell's  own  private  tutor  in  Bell's  early  life, 
and  it  was  whilst  under  Mr.  Coacher's  roof,  indeed,  and  when 
only  a  bo}"  of  seventeen  or  eighteen  years  of  age,  that  the  im- 
petuous 3"0ung  Bell  had  flung  himself  at  the  feet  of  Miss  Martha 
Coacher,  whom  he  was  helping  to  pick  peas  in  the  garden.  On 
his  knees,  before  those  peas  and  her,  he  pledged  himself  to  an 
endless  affection. 

Miss  Coacher  was  by  many  years  the  young  fellow's  senior : 
and  her  own  heart  had  been  lacerated  by  many  previous  disap- 
pointments in  the  matrimonial  line.  No  less  than  three  pupils 
of  her  father  had  trifled  with  those  young  affections.  The 
apothecary-  of  the  village  had  dc^spicably  jilted  her.  The  dra- 
goon officer,  with  whom  she  had  danced  so  many  many  times 
during  that  happy  season  which  she  passed  at  liath  with  her 
gouty  grandmamma,  one  day  gayly  shook  his  lu-idle-rein  and 
galloped  away,  never  to  return.  Wounded  by  the  shafts  of 
repeated  ingratitude,  can  it  be  wondered  at  that  the  heart  of 
Martha  Coacher  should  pant  to  find  rest  somewhere?  She 
listened  to  the  proposals  of  the  gawk,y  gallant  honest  l)oy,  with 
great  kindness  and  good-liumor :  at  the  end  of  his  speech  she 


76  PEXDENXIS. 

said,  "  Law  Bell,  I'ui  sure  you  are  too  young  to  think  of  such 
things  ;  "  but  intimated  that  she  too  would  revolve  them  in  her 
own  virgin  bosom.  She  could  not  refer  Mr.  Bell  to  her  mamma, 
for  Mr.  Coacher  was  a  widower,  and  being  immersed  in  his 
books,  was  of  course  unable  to  take  the  direction  of  so  frail 
and  wondrous  an  article  as  a  lady's  heart,  which  IMiss  Martha 
had  to  manage  for  herself. 

A  lock  of  her  hair  tied  up  in  a  piece  of  blue  ribbon,  con- 
veyed to  the  liappy  Bell  the  result  of  the  Vestal's  conference 
with  herself.  Thrice  befori'  had  she  snipt  otf  one  of  her  auburn 
ringlets,  and  given  them  away.  The  possessors  were  faithless, 
but  the  hair  had  grown  again  :  and  Martha  had  indeed  occasion 
to  sa}'  that  men  were  deceivers,  when  she  handed  over  this 
tokeii  of  \o\e  to  the  simple  boy. 

Number  G,  however,  was  an  exception  to  former  passions  — 
Francis  Bell  was  the  most  laithfid  of  lovers.  When  his  time 
arrived  to  go  to  college,  and  it  became  necessaiy  to  acquaint 
Mr.  Coacher  of  the  arrangements  that  had  been  made,  the  lat- 
ter cried,  "  God  bless  my  soul,  I  hadn't  the  least  idea  what 
was  going  on  ; "  as  was  indeed  very  likely,  for  he  had  been 
taken  in  tlu'ee  times  before  in  precisely  a  similar  manner ;  and 
Francis  went  to  the  University  resolved  to  conquer  honors,  so 
as  to  be  able  to  lay  them  at  the  feet  of  his  beloved  Martha. 

This  prize  in  view  made  him  labor  prodigiousl3\  News 
came,  term  after  term,  of  the  honors  he  won.  He  sent  the 
prize-books  for  his  college  essays  to  old  Coacher,  and  his  silver 
declamation  cup  to  Miss  Martha.  In  due  season  he  was  high 
among  the  AYranglers,  and  a  Fellow  of  his  College  ;  and  during 
all  the  time  of  these  transactions  a  constant  tender  correspond- 
ence was  kept  up  with  Miss  Coacher,  to  whose  influence,  and 
perhaps  with  justice,  he  attributed  the  successes  which  he  had 
won. 

By  the  time,  however,  when  the  Rev.  Francis  Bell,  M.A., 
and  Fellow  and  Tutor  of  his  College,  was  twenty-six  years  of 
age,  it  happiMied  tliat  Miss  Coacher  was  thirt3'-four,  nor  had 
her  charms,  her  manners,  or  her  temper  improved  since  that 
sunny  day  in  the  springtime  of  life  wlien  he  found  her  picking 
peas  in  the  garden.  Having  achieved  his  honors,  he  relaxed 
in  the  ardor  of  his  studies,  and  his  judgment  and  tastes  also 
perhaps  became  cooler.  The  sunshine  of  the  pea-garden  faded 
away  from  Miss  Martha,  and  poor  Bell  found  himself  engaged 
—  and  his  hand  pledged  to  that  bond  in  a  thousand  letters  — 
to  a  coarse,  ill-tempered,  ill-favored,  ill-mannered,  middle-aged 
woman. 


PENDENNIS.  77 

It  was  ill  consequence  of  one  of  man}' altercations  (in  wliich 
Martha's  eloquence  shone,  and  in  Avhich  therefore  she  was  fre- 
quently pleased  to  indulge),  that  Francis  refused  to  take  his 
pupils  to  Bearleader's  Green,  whore  Mr.  Coacher's  living  was, 
and  where  Bell  was  in  the  habit  of  spending  the  summer :  and 
he  bethought  him  that  he  would  pass  the  vacation  at  his  aunt's 
village,  which  he  had  not  seen  for  man}'  years  —  not  since  little 
Helen  was  a  girl,  auei  used  to  sit  on  his  knee.  Down  then  he 
came  and  lived  with  them.  Helen  was  grown  a  beautiful  young 
woman  now.  The  cousins  were  nearly  four  months  together, 
from  June  to  October.  The}'  walked  in  the  summer  evenings  : 
they  met  in  the  early  morn.  They  read  out  of  the  same  book 
when  the  old  lady  dozed  at  night  over  the  candles.  What  little 
Helen  knew,  Frank  taught  her.  She  sang  to  him  :  she  gave 
her  artless  heart  to  him.  She  was  aware  of  all  his  story.  Had 
he  made  any  secret  ?  —  had  he  not  shown  the  picture  of  the 
woman  to  whom  he  was  engaged,  and  with  a  blush,  —  her 
letters,  hard,  eager,  and  cruel?  —  The  days  went  on  and  on, 
happier  and  closoi",  with  more  kindness,  more  confidence,  and 
more  pity.  At  last  one  morning  in  October  came  when  Francis 
went  back  to  college,  and  the  poor  girl  lelt  that  her  tender  heart 
was  gone  with  him. 

Frank  too  wakened  up  from  the  delightful  midsummer- 
dream  to  the  horrible  realit}'  of  his  own  pain.  He  gnashed  and 
tore  at  the  chain  which  bound  him.  He  was  frantic  to  break 
it  and  be  free.  Should  he  confess?  —  give  his  savings  to  the 
woman  to  whom  he  was  bound,  and  beg  his  release?— there 
was  time  yet  —  he  temporized.  No  living  might  fall  in  for 
years  to  come.  The  cousins  went  on  corresponding  sadly  and 
fondly  :  the  betrothed  woman,  hard,  jealous,  and  dissatisfied, 
(Complaining  bitterly,  and  with  reason,  of  her  Francis's  altered 
1x)ne. 

At  last  things  came  to  a  crisis,  and  the  new  attachment  was 
discovered.  Francis  owned  it,  cared  not  to  disguise  it,  rebuked 
Martha  with  her  Aiolent  temper  and  angry  imperiousness,  and, 
woi'st  of  all,  with  her  inferiority  and  her  age. 

Her  reply  was,  that  if  he  did  not  keep  his  promise  she  would 
carry  his  letters  into  every  court  in  the  kingdom  —  letters  in 
which  his  love  was  pledged  to  her  ten  thousand  times ;  and, 
after  exposing  him  to  the  world  as  the  perjurer  and  traitor  he 
was,  she  would  kill  herself. 

Frank  had  one  more  interview  with  Helen,  whose  mother 
was  dead  then,  and  who  was  living  companion  with  old  Lady 
Pontypool, — one  more  interview,  where  it  was  resolved  that 


78  PENiiKXNIS. 

he  w!is  to  do  his  (hity  ;  that  is,  to  redeem  his  vow ;  that  is,  to 
pa}-  a  debt  eozened  from  him  by  a  sharper ;  that  is,  to  make 
two  honest  people  miserable.  80  the  two  judged  their  duty  to 
be,  and  they  parted. 

The  living  lell  in  only  too  soon  ;  but  yet  Frank  Bell  was 
quite  a  gray  and  worn-out  man  when  he  was  inducted  into  it. 
Helen  wrote  him  a  letter  on  his  marriage,  beginning,  "  My 
dear  Cousin,"  and  ending  "  always  truly  yours."  She  sent  him 
back  the  other  letters,  and  the  lock  of  his  hair  —  all  but  a  small 
piece.  She  had  it  in  her  desk  when  she  was  talking  to  the 
Major. 

Bell  lived  for  three  or  four  years  in  his  living,  at  the  end  of 
which  time,  the  Chaplainship  of  Coventry  Island  falling  vacant, 
Frank  applied  for  it  privately,  and  having  procured  it,  an- 
nounced the  appointment  to  his  wife.  She  objected,  as  she 
did  to  everything.  lie  told  her  bitterly  that  he  did  not  want 
her  to  come  :  so  she  went.  Bell  went  out  in  Governor  Crawley's 
time,  and  was  very  intimate  with  that  gentleman  in  his  later 
years.  And  it  was  in  Coventry  Island,  years  after  his  own 
marriage,  and  five  years  after  he  had  heard  of  the  birth  of 
Helen's  boy,  that  his  own  daughter  was  born. 

She  was  not  the  daughter  of  the  first  Mrs.  Bell,  who  died  of 
island  fever  very  soon  after  Helen  Pendennis  and  her  husband, 
to  whom  Helen  had  told  ever^-thing,  wrote  to  inform  Bell  of  the 
birth  of  their  child.  "  I  was  old.  was  I?"  said  Mrs.  Bell  the 
first;  "I  was  old,  and  her  inferior,  was  I?  but  I  married  you, 
Mr.  Bell,  and  kept  you  from  marrying  her?  "  and  hereupon  she 
died.  Bell  married  a  colonial  lad}',  whom  he  loved  fondly. 
But  he  was  not  doomed  to  prosper  in  love  ;  and,  this  lady 
dying  in  child-birth,  Bell  gave  up  too  :  sending  his  Httle  girl 
home  to  Helen  Pendennis  and  her  husband,  with  a  parting 
pra3-er  that  they  would  befriend  her. 

The  little  thing  came  to  Fairoaks  from  Bristol,  which  is  not 
very  far  off,  dressed  in  black,  and  in  company  of  a  soldier's 
wife,  her  nurse,  at  parting  from  whom  she  wept  bitterly.  But 
she  soon  dried  up  her  grief  under  Helen's  motherly  care. 

Round  her  neck  she  had  a  locket  with  hair,  which  Helen  had 
given,  ah,  how  many  years  ago  !  to  poor  Francis,  dead  and 
buried.  This  child  was  all  that  was  left  of  him,  and  she  cher- 
ished, as  so  tender  a  creature  would,  the  legacy  which  he  had 
bequeathed  to  her.  The  girl's  name,  as  his  dying  letter  stated, 
was  Helen  Laura.  But  John  Pendennis,  though  he  accepted 
the  trust,  was  alwa3's  rather  jealous  of  the  orphan ;  and 
gloomil}-  ordered  that  she  should  be  called  by  her  own  mother's 


PENDENNIS.  79 

name ;  and  not  b}''  that  first  one  which  her  father  had  given 
her.  She  was  afraid  of  Mr.  Peudennis,  to  the  last  moment  of 
his  life.  And  it  was  onh'  when  her  husband  was  gone  that 
Helen  dared  openly  to  indulge  in  the  tenderness  which  she  felt 
for  the  little  girl. 

Thus  it  was  that  Laura  Bell  became  Mrs.  Pendennis's 
daughter.  Neither  her  husband  nor  that  gentleman's  brother, 
the  Major,  viewed  her  with  very  favorable  eyes.  IShe  reminded 
the  first  of  circumstances  in  his  wife's  life  which  he  was  forced 
to  accept,  but  would  have  forgotten  much  more  willingly  :  and 
as  for  the  second,  how  could  he  regard  her?  8he  was  neither 
related  to  his  own  family  of  Pendennis,  nor  to  an}-  nobleman  in 
this  empire,  and  she  had  but  a  couple  of  thousand  pounds  for 
her  fortune. 

And  now  let  Mr.  Pen  come  in,  who  has  been  waiting  all  this 
while. 

Having  strung  up  his  nerves,  and  prepared  himself,  without 
at  the  door,  for  the  meeting,  he  came  to  it,  determined  to  face 
the  awful  uncle.  He  had  settled  in  his  mind  that  the  encounter 
was  to  be  a  fierce  one,  and  was  resolved  on  bearing  it  through 
with  all  the  courage  and  dignitv  of  the  famous  family  which  he 
represented.  And  he  flung  open  the  door  and  entered  with  the 
most  severe  and  warlike  expression,  armed  cap-a-pie  as  it  were, 
with  lance  couched  and  plumes  displa^'ed,  and  glancing  at  his 
adversar}-,  as  if  to  say,  '•  Come  on,  I'm  ready." 

The  old  man  of  the  world,  as  he  surveyed  the  bo^'s  de- 
meanor, could  hardl}-  help  a  grin  at  his  admirable  pompous 
simplicit}'.  Major  Pendennis  too  had  examined  his  gi'ound  ; 
and  finding  that  the  widow  was  already  half  won  over  to  the 
enem}-,  and  having  a  shrewd  notion  that  threats  and  tragic  ex- 
hortations would  have  no  effect  upon  the  boy,  who  was  inclined 
to  be  perfectly  stubborn  and  awfully  serious,  the  Major  laid 
aside  the  authoritative  manner  at  once,  and  with  the  most  good- , 
humored  natural  smile  in  the  world,  held  out  his  hands  to  Pen, 
shook  the  lad's  passive  fingers  gaylj',  and  said,  "  Well,  Pen,  my 
boy,  tell  us  all  about  it." 

Helen  was  delighted  with  the  generosit}"  of  the  Major's  good- 
humor.  On  the  contrar3^  it  quite  took  aback  and  disappointed 
poor  Pen,  whose  nerves  were  strung  up  for  a  tragedy,  and  who 
felt  that  his  grand  entree  was  altogether  baulked  and  ludicrous. 
He  blushed  and  winced  with  mortified  vanity  and  bewilderment. 
He  felt  immensely  inclined  to  begin  to  cry.  "I  —  I  —  I  didn't 
know  that  you  were  come  till  just  now,"  he  said:  "is  —  is— - 
town  very  full  I  suppose  ?  " 


80  pp:ndennis. 

If  Pen  could  hardl}'  gulp  his  tears  down,  it  was  all  the  Majoi 
could  do  to  keep  from  laughter.  He  turned  round  and  shot  a 
comical  glance  at  Mrs.  Pendennis,  who  too  felt  that  the  scene 
was  at  once  ridiculous  and  sentimental.  And  so,  having  noth- 
ing to  say,  she  went  up  and  kissed  Mr.  Pen :  as  he  thought  of 
her  tenderness  and  soft  obedience  to  his  wishes,  it  is  very  possi- 
ble too  the  boy  was  melted. 

"  "What  a  couple  of  ibols  they  arc,"  thought  the  old  guardian. 
"  If  I  hadn't  come  down,  she  would  liave  driven  over  in  state  to 
pay  a  visit  and  give  her  blessing  to  the  young  lady's  family." 

"Come,  come,"  said  he,  still  grinning  at  the  couple,  "let 
as  have  as  little  sentiment  as  possible,  and  Pen,  my  good  fel- 
low, tell  us  the  whole  story." 

Pen  got  back  at  once  to  his  tragic  and  heroical  air.  "  The 
stor}'  is,  sir,"  said  he,  "  as  I  have  written  it  to  you  before.  I 
have  made  the  acquaintance  of  a  most  beautiful  and  most  vir- 
tuous lady ;  of  a  high  famih',  although  in  reduced  circum- 
stances ;  I  have  found  the  woman  in  whom  I  know  that  the 
happiness  of  my  life  is  centred  ;  I  feel  that  I  never,  never  can 
think  about  any  woman  but  her.  I  am  aware  of  the  ditference 
of  our  ages  and  other  diflieulties  in  m3'  way.  But  my  aflection 
was  so  great  that  1  felt  I  could  surmount  all  these  ;  —  that  we 
hoth  could  :  and  she  has  consented  to  unite  her  lot  with  mine, 
and  to  accept  my  heart  and  my  fortune." 

'•  How  nuich  is  that,  my  boy?  "  said  the  Major.  "  Has  any- 
body left  you  some  money?  I  don't  know  that  you  are  worth 
a  shilling  in  the  world." 

"  You  know  what  I  have  is  his,"  cried  out  Mrs.  Pendennis. 

"  Good  heavens,  madam,  hold  your  tongue  !  "  was  what 
the  guardian  was  disposed  to  say ;  but  he  kept  his  temper,  not 
without  a  struggle.  "  No  doubt,  no  doubt,"  he  said.  "You 
would  sacrifice  anything  for  him.  Everybody  knows  that.  But 
it  is,  alter  all,  then,  your  fortune  which  Pen  is  otfering  to  the 
young  lad}" ;  and  of  which  he  Avishes  to  take  possession  at 
eighteen." 

"I  know  my  mother  will  give  nie  anj'thing,"  Pen  said, 
looking  rather  disturbed. 

"  Yes,  my  good  fellow,  but  there  is  reason  in  all  things.  If 
your  mother  keei)s  the  house,  it  is  but  fair  that  she  should  select 
her  compan}'.  When  you  give  her  house  over  her  head,  and 
transfer  her  banker's  account  to  yoiu'self  for  the  benefit  of  Miss 
Wliat-d'-3"ou-call-'em  —  Miss  Costigan  —  don't  you  think  3^ou 
should  at  least  have  consulted  m}'  sister  as  one  of  the  principal 
parties  in  the  transaction?     I  am  speaking  to  a^ou,  ^-ou  see. 


PEN  DENNIS.  81 

without  the  least  anger  or  assumption  of  authority  ,  such  as  the 
law  and  ^-our  father's  will  give  me  over  30U  for  three  ^ears  to 
come — but  as  ouc  man  of  the  world  to  another,  —  and  I  ask 
you,  if  30U  tliink  that,  because  you  can  do  what  you  lilce  with 
3-oui'  mother,  therefore  you  have  a  right  to  do  so  ?  As  you  are 
her  dependant,  would  it  not  have  been  more  generous  to  wait 
befoi-e  3'ou  took  this  step,  and  at  least  to  have  paid  her  the 
courtes3'  to  ask  her  leave  ?  " 

Pen  held  down  his  head,  and  began  diml3-  to  perceive  that 
the  action  on  which  he  had  prided  himself  as  a  most  romantic, 
generous  instance  of  disinterested  affection,  was  perhaps  a  very 
selfish  and  headstrong  piece  of  foll3'. 

"I  did  it  in  a  moment  of  passion,"  said  Pen,  floundering; 
"  I  was  not  aware  what  I  was  going  to  say  or  to  do"  (and  in 
this  he  spoke  with  perfect  sincerity).  •*  But  now  it  is  said, 
and  I  stand  to  it.  No  ;  I  neither  can  nor  will  i-ecall  it.  I'll 
die  rather  than  do  so.  And  I  —  I  don't  want  to  burden  m3^ 
mother,"  he  continued.  "  I'll  work  for  myself.  I'll  go  on  the 
stage,  and  act  with  her.  She  —  she  sa3's  I  should  do  well 
there." 

"  But  will  she  take  3'ou  on  those  terms?  "  the  Major  inter- 
posed. "  Mind,  I  do  not  sa3'  that  Miss  Costigan  is  not  the 
most  disinterested  of  women  ;  but,  don't  you  suppose  now, 
fairly,  that  30ur  position  as  a  young  gentleman  of  ancient  birth 
and  decent  expectations,  forms  a  part  of  the  cause  why  she 
^nds  your  addresses  welcome  ?  " 

"  I'll  die,  I  sa3-,  rather  than  foi"feit  my  pledge  to  her,"  said 
Pen,  doubling  his  fists  and  turning  red. 

""Who  asks  30U,  m3'  dear  friend?"  answered  the  im- 
perturbable guardian.  "No  gentleman  breaks  his  word, 
of  course,  when  it  has  been  given  freel3'.  But  after  all, 
you  can  wait.  You  owe  something  to  your  mother,  some- 
thing to  your  famil3'  —  something  to  me  as  your  father's  rep- 
resentative." 

"  Oh,  of  course,"  Pen  said,  feeling  rather  relieved. 

"Well,  as  you  have  pledged  3our  word  to  her,  give  us 
another,  will  you,  Arthur?" 

"  What  is  it?  "  Arthur  asked. 

"  That  you  will  make  no  priA'ate  marriage  —  that  3'ou  w'on't 
be  taking  a  trip  to  Scotland,  you  understand." 

"  That  would  be  a  falsehood.  Pen  never  told  his  mother  a 
falsehood."  Helen  said. 

Pen  hung  down  his  head  again,  and  his  e^'cs  filled  with  tears 
of  shame.     Had  not  this  whole  intrigue   been  a  falsehood  to 

6 


R2  PENDENNlb. 

that  tender  and  confiding  creature  who  was  ready  to  give  up  all 
for  his  sake?     He  gave  his  uncle  his  hand. 

"  No,  sir  —  on  my  word  of  honor  as  a  gentleman,"  he  said, 
"  I  will  never  marry  without  my  mother's  consent !  "  and  giving 
Helen  a  bright  parting  look  of  confidence  and  affection  unchange- 
able, the  boy  went  out  of  the  drawing-room  into  his  own  study. 

''He's  an  angel  —  he's  an  angel,"  the  mother  cried  out  in 
one  of  her  usual  raptures. 

"  He  comes  of  a  good  stock,  ma'am,"  said  her  brother- 
in-law —  "of  a  good  stock  on  both  sides."  The  Major  was 
o-rcatly  pleased  with  the  result  of  his  diplomacy  —  so  much  so, 
that  he  once  more  saluted  the  tips  of  Mrs.  Pendennis's  glove, 
and  droi)i)ing  the  curt,  manh",  and  straightforward  tone  in 
which  he  had  conducted  the  conversation  with  the  lad,  assumed 
a  certaiu  drawl,  which  he  always  adopted  when  he  was  most 
conceited  and  fine. 

"My  dear  creature,"  said  he,  in  that  his  politest  tone,  "I 
think  it  certainly  as  well  that  I  came  down,  and  I  flatter  myself 
that  last  botie  was  a  successful  one.  I  tell  you  how  I  came  to 
think  of  it.  Three  years  ago  my  kind  friend  Lady  Ferrybridge 
sent  for  me  in  the  greatest  state  of  alarm  about  her  son  Gretna, 
whose  affair  you  remember,  and  implored  me  to  use  my  influence 
with  the  young  gentleman,  who  was  engaged  in  an  affaire  de 
cceur  with  a  Scotch  clergyman's  daughter,  Miss  TJac  Toddy. 
I  implored,  I  entreated  gentle  measures.  But  Lord  Ferr}^- 
bridge  was  furious,  and  tried  the  high  hand.  Gretna  was  sulky 
and  silent,  and  his  parents  thought  they  had  conquered.  But 
what  was  the  fact,  my  dear  creature  ?  The  young  people  had 
been  married  for  three  months  before  Lord  Ferrybridge  knew 
anything  about  it.  And  that  was  why  I  extracted  the  promise 
from  Master  Pen." 

"  Arthur  would  never  have  done  so,"  Mrs.  Pendennis  said. 

"He  hasn't,  —  that  is  one  comfort,"  answered  the  brother- 
in-law. 

Like  a  wary  and  patient  man  of  the  world.  Major  Pendennis 
did  not  press  poor  Pen  any  farther  for  the  moment,  but  hoped 
the  best  from  time,  and  that  the  3'oung  fellow's  e3-es  would  be 
opened  before  long  to  see  the  absurdity  of  which  he  was  guilt}'. 
And  haAang  found  out  how  keen  the  boy's  point  of  honor  was, 
he  worked  kindly  upon  that  kindly  feeling  with  great  skill,  dis- 
coursing him  over  their  wine  after  dinner,  and  pointing  out  to 
Pen  the  necessity  of  a  perfect  uprightness  and  openness  in  all 
his  dealings,  i^nd  entreating  that  his  communications  with  his 
interesting  young  friend   (as  the  Major  politely  called   Miss 


PEJJ  DENNIS.  83 

Fotheringa}-)  should  be  carried  on  with  the  knowledge,  if  not 
approbation,  of  Mrs.  Pendennis.  "  After  all,  Pen,"  the  Major 
said,  with  a  convenient  frankness  that  did  not  displease  the  bo}", 
whilst  it  advanced  the  interests  of  the  negotiator,  ''you  must 
bear  in  mind  that  you  are  throwing  yourself  away.  Your 
mother  may  submit  to  your  marriage  as  she  would  to  anything 
else  you  desired,  if  you  did  but  cry  long  enough  for  it :  but  be 
sure  of  this,  that  it  can  never  please  her.  You  take  a  young 
woman  otf  the  boards  of  a  country  theatre  and  prefer  her,  for 
such  is  the  case,  to  one  of  the  finest  ladies  in  England.  And 
your  mother  will  submit  to  your  choice,  but  you  can't  suppose 
tliat  she  will  be  happy  under  it.  I  have  often  fancied,  entre 
nous,  that  my  sister  had  it  in  her  eye  to  make  a  marriage 
between  j-ou  and  that  little  ward  of  hers  —  Flora,  Laura  — 
what's  her  name  ?  And  I  always  determined  to  do  m}"  small 
endeavor  to  prevent  any  such  match.  The  child  has  but  two 
thousand  pounds,  I  am  given  to  understand.  It  is  only  with 
the  utmost  ecouom^'  and  care  that  my  sister  can  provide  for  the 
decent  maintenance  of  her  house,  and  for  3'our  appearance  and 
education  as  a  gentleman  ;  and  I  don't  care  to  own  to  30U  that 
1  had  other  and  much  higher  views  for  you.  With  your  name 
and  birth,  sir  —  withyour  talents,  which  1  suppose  are  i-especta- 
ble,  with  the  friends  whom  1  have  the  honor  to  possess,  I  could 
have  placed  you  in  an  excellent  position  —  a  remarkable  position 
for  a  3'oung  man  of  such  exceeding  small  means,  and  had  hoped 
t«:)  see  3'ou,  at  least,  trj'  to  restore  the  honors  of  our  name. 
I'our  mother's  softness  stopped  one  prospect,  or  you  might 
have  been  a  general,  like  our  gallant  ancestor  who  fought  at 
B'amillies  and  Malplaquct.  I  had  another  plan  in  view  :  my 
excellent  and  kind  friend,  Lord  Bagwig,  who  is  very  well  dis- 
posed towards  me,  would,  I  have  little  doubt,  have  attached 
you  to  his  mission  at  Pumpernickel,  and  you  might  have  ad- 
vanced in  the  diplomatic  service.  But,  pardon  me  for  recurring 
to  the  subject ;  how  is  a  man  to  serve  a  young  gentleman  of 
eighteen,  who  proposes  to  marry  a  lady  of  thirty,  whom  he  has 
selected  from  a  booth  in  a  fair?  —  well,  not  a  fair, — barn. 
That  profession  at  once  is  closed  to  3^ou.  The  public  service  is 
closed  to  you.  Society  is  closed  to  you.  You  see,  my  good 
friend,  to  what  you  bring  yourself.  Y"ou  ma}-  get  on  at  the  bar 
U>  be  sure,  where  I  am  given  to  understand  that  gentlemen  of 
merit  occasionally  marry  out  of  their  kitchens  ;  but  in  no  other 
profession.  Or  you  ma}'  come  and  live  down  here  —  down  here, 
mon  Dieu  !  for  ever"  (said  the  Major,  with  a  dreary  shrug,  as 
he  thought  with  inexpressible  fondness  of  Pall  Mall),  "  where 


84  PENDENNIS. 

your  mother  will  receive  the  Mrs.  Arthur  that  is  to  be,  with 
perfect  kindness  ;  where  the  good  people  of  the  county  won't 
visit  you  ;  and  where,  by  Gad,  sir,  I  shall  be  shy  of  visiting 
you  nnself,  for  I'm  a  plain  spoken  man,  and  I  own  to  you 
that  I  like  to  live  with  gentlemen  for  my  companions ;  where 
you  will  have  to  live,  with  rum-and-water  drinking  gentlemen- 
farmers,  and  drag  through  your  life  the  young  husband  of  an 
old  woman,  who,  if  she  doesn't  quarrel  with  your  mother,  will 
at  least  cost  that  lady  her  position  in  society,  and  drag  her 
down  into  that  dubious  caste  into  which  you  must  inevitably  fall. 
It  is  no  affair  of  mine,  my  good  sir.  I  am  not  angry.  Your 
downfall  will  not  hurt  me  farther  than  that  it  will  extinguish 
the  hopes  I  had  of  seeing  my  family  once  more  taking  its 
place  in  the  world.  It  is  only  your  mother  and  yourself  that 
will  be  ruined.  And  I  pity  you  both  from  my  soul.  Pass 
the  clarci :  it  is  some  I  sent  to  your  poor  father  ;  I  remember 
[  bought  it  at  poor  Lord  Levant's  sale.  But  of  course,"  added 
the  Major,  smacking  the  wine,  "having  engaged  yourself,  you 
will  do  what  beciomes  you  as  a  man  of  honor,  however  fatai 
your  promise  may  be.  However,  promise  us  on  our  side,  my 
boy,  what  I  set  out  by  entreating  you  to  grant,  —  that  there 
shall  be  nothing  clandestine,  that  you  will  pursue  your  studies, 
that  30U  will  only  visit  your  interesting  friend  at  proper  inter- 
vals.    Do  you  write  to  her  much?" 

Pen  blushed  and  said,  "Why,  j^es,  he  had  written." 
"I  suppose  verses,  eh!  as  well  as  prose?  I  was  a  dab  at 
verses  m^'self.  I  recollect  when  I  first  joined,  I  used  to  write 
verses  for  the  fellows  in  the  regiment ;  and  did  some  pretty 
things  in  that  way.  I  was  talking  to  my  old  friend  Genera) 
Hob  bier  about  some  lines  I  dashed  off  for  him  in  the  year  1806, 
when  we  were  at  the  Cape,  and.  Gad,  he  remembered  every  line 
of  them  still ;  for  he'd  used  'em  so  often,  the  old  rogue,  and 
had  actually  tried  'em  on  Mrs.  Hobbler,  sir  —  who  brought  him 
sixty  thousand  pounds.    I  suppose  you've  tried  verses,  eh,  Pen  ?  " 

Pen  blushed  again,  and  said,  "Why,  yes,  he  had  written 
verses." 

"  And  does  the  fair  one  respond  in  poetry  or  prose?"  asked 
the  Major,  eying  his  nephew  with  the  queerest  expression,  as 
much  as  to  say,  "  O  Moses  and  Green  Spectacles  !  what  a  fool 
the  bo}-  is." 

Pen  blushed  again.  She  had  written,  but  not  in  verse,  the 
young  lover  owned,  and  he  gave  his  breast-pocket  the  benefit  of 
a  squeeze  with  his  left  arm,  which  the  Major  remarked,  accord- 
ing to  his  wont. 


PENDENNIS.  85 

"  You  have  got  the  letters  there,  1  see,"  said  the  old  cam* 
paigner.  nodding  at  Pen  and  pointing  to  his  own  chest  (which 
was  maurully  wadded  witli  cotton  by  Mr.  Stultz).  '*■  You  know 
you  have.     I  would  give  twopence  to  see  'em." 

'■  Why,"  said  Pen,  twiddling  the  stallvs  of  the  strawberries, 
"  I  — I,"  but  this  sentence  was  never  tinislied  ;  for  Pen's  face 
was  so  comical  and  embarrassed,  as  the  Major  watched  it,  that 
the  elder  could  contain  liis  gravity  no  longer,  and  burst  into  a 
fit  of  laughter,  in  which  choius  Pen  himself  was  obliged  to  join 
after  a  minute  :  when  he  broke  out  fairly  into  a  guffaw. 

It  sent  them  with  great  good-humor  into  Mrs.  Pendennis's 
drawing-room.  She  was  pleased  to  hear  them  laughing  in  the 
hall  as  they  crossed  it. 

"  You  sly  rascal !  "  said  the  Major,  putting  his  arm  gayly  on 
Pen's  shoulder,  and  giving  a  pla3-ful  push  at  the  boy's  breast- 
pocket, lie  felt  the  papers  crackling  there  sure  enough.  The 
young  fellow  was  delighted  —  conceited  —  triumphant  —  and  in 
one  word,  a  spooney. 

The  pair  came  to  the  tea-table  in  the  highest  spirits.  The 
Major's  politeness  was  beyond  expression.  He  had  never 
tasted  such  good  tea,  and  such  bread  was  onl}'  to  be  had  in  the 
countr}-.  He  asked  Mrs.  Pendennis  for  one  of  her  charming 
songs.  He  then  made  Pen  sing,  and  was  delighted  and  aston- 
ished at  the  beaut}-  of  the  boy's  voice  :  he  made  his  nephew 
fetch  his  maps  and  drawings,  and  praised  them  as  reallv  remark- 
able works  of  talent  in  a  young  fellow  :  he  complimented  him 
on  his  French  pronunciation  :  he  flattered  the  simple  boy  as 
adroitly  as  ever  lover  flattered  a  mistress  :  and  when  bed  time 
came,  mother  and  son  went  to  their  several  rooms  perfectly  en- 
chanted with  the  kind  Major. 

When  they  had  reached  those  apartments,  I  suppose  Helen 
took  to  her  knees  as  usual :  and  Pen  read  over  his  letters 
before  going  to  bed  :  just  as  if  he  didn't  know  every  word  of 
them  b}^  heart  already.  In  truth  there  were  but  three  of  those 
documents :  and  to  learn  their  contents  required  no  great  eflTort 
of  memor}'. 

In  No.  1,  Miss  Fotheringay  presents  grateful  compliments 
to  Mr.  Pendennis,  and  in  her  papa's  name  and  her  own  begs  to 
thank  him  for  his  most  beautiful  presents.  They  will  alwa3's  be 
kept  carefully;  and  Miss  F.  and  Captain  C.  will  never  forget 
the  delightful  evenirig  which  they  passed  on  Tuesday  last. 

No.  2,  said  —  Dear  Sir,  we  shall  have  a  small  quiet  party  of 
social  friends  at  our  humble  boards  next  Tuesday  evening,  at  an 


86  PENDENNl^. 

\'.arhj  tea^  when  I  shall  wear  the  beauHfid  scarf  which,  with  it? 
accompany im)  diliyhlfid  verses,  I  shall  ever,  ever  cherish  :  and 
papa  bids  me  say  how  happy  he  will  be  if  you  will  joui  ''the 
feast  of  reason  and  the  Jiaiv  of  sour'  in  our  festive  liUle  pa7'fi/,  as 
I  am  sure  will  be  your  truly  yratefui 

Emily  Fotheringay. 

No.  3  was  somewhat  more  confidential,  and  showed  that 
matters  had  proceeded  rather  far.  You  were  odious  yesterday 
night,  the  letter  said.  VVh}-  did  you  not  come  to  the  stage- 
door?  Papa  could  not  escort  me  on  account  of  his  eye;  he 
had  an  accident,  and  fell  down  over  a  loose  carpet  on  the  stair 
on  Sunday  night.  I  saw  you  looking  at  Miss  Diggle  all  night ; 
and  3"ou  were  so  enchanted  with  Lydia  Languish  you  scarcely 
(mce  looked  at  Julia.  I  could  have  crushed  Bingley,  I  was  so 
\^ngry.  I  play  Ella  Rosenberg  on  Friday  :  will  you  come  then  ? 
Miss  Diggle  performs  —  ever  yonv 

E.  F. 

These  three  letters  Mr.  Pen  used  to  read  at  intervals,  dur- 
ing the  day  and  night,  and  embrace  with  that  delight  and  fervor 
ivhich  sucii  beautiful  compositions  surely  warranted.  A  thou- 
jand  times  at  least  he  had  kissed  fondly  the  musky  satin  paper, 
made  sacred  to  him  by  the  hand  of  Emily  Fotheringay.  This 
iv^as  all  he  had  in  return  for  his  passion  and  flames,  his  vows 
jaid  protests,  his  rhymes  and  similes,  his  wakeful  nights  and 
Mindless  thoughts,  his  fondness,  fears  and  folly.  The  young 
\riseacre  had  pledged  away  his  all  for  this:  signed  his  name 
1o  endless  promissory  notes,  conferring  his  heart  upon  the 
liearer:  bound  himself  for  life,  and  got  back  twopence  as  an 
equivalent.  For  Miss  Costigan  was  a  young  lady  of  such  per- 
fect good  conduct  and  self-command,  that  she  never  would  have 
thought  of  giving  more,  and  reserved  the  treasures  of  her  atfec- 
tion  until  she  could  transfer  them  lawfully  at  church. 

Howbeit,  Mr.  Pen  was  content  with  what  tokens  of  regard 
he  had  got,  and  mumbled  over  his  three  letters  in  a  ra):)ture  of 
l  igh  spirits,  and  went  to  sleep  delighted  with  his  kind  old  uncle 
from  London,  who  must  evidently  yield  to  his  wishes  in  time  ; 
and,  in  a  word,  in  a  preposterous  state  of  contentment  with 
Umself  and  all  the  world. 


PENDEXNIS.  8'i 

CHAPTER   IX. 

IN   WHICH   THE    MAJOR   OPENS   THE   CAJfPAIGN. 

Let  ttiose  who  have  the  blessed  privilege  of  an  entree  inti> 
th  I  most  select  circles,  admit  that  Major  Pendennis  was  a  mail 
of  no  ordinar}-  generosit}*  and  affection,  in  the  sacrifice  whic'l 
he  now  made.  He  gave  up  London  in  May,  —  his  newspaper » 
and  his  mornings  —  his  afternoons  from  club  to  club,  his  litth 
confidential  visits  to  my  Ladies,  his  rides  in  Rotten  Row,  lii» 
dinners,  and  his  stall  at  the  Opera,  his  rapid  escapades  to  Ful- 
ham  or  Richmond  on  Saturdays  and  Sundays,  his  bow  from  m;; 
Lord  Duke  or  m}-  Lord  Marquis  at  the  great  London  entertain ' 
ments,  and  his  name  in  the  "  Morning  Post"  of  the  succeeding  { 
da}-,  —  his  Cjuieter  little  festivals,  more  select,  secret,  au'  1 
deUghtful  —  all  these  he  resigned  to  lock  himself  into  a  Ion  i 
little  country  house,  with  a  simple  widow  and  a  greenhorn  c  f 
a  son,  a  mawkish  curate,  and  a  little  girl  of  twelve  years  c  f 
age. 

He  made  the  sacrifice,  and  it  was  the  greater  that  few  knei  t 
the  extent  of  it.  His  letters  came  down  franked  from  towr , 
and  he  showed  the  invitations  to  Helen  with  a  sigh.  It  waB 
beautiful  and  tragical  to  see  him  refuse  one  party  after  another 
—  at  least  to  those  who  could  understand,  as  Helen  didn't,  the 
melancholv  gi'andeur  of  his  self-denial.  Helen  did  not,  or  onl}- 
smiled  at  the  awful  pathos  with  which  the  Major  spoke  of  the 
Court  Guide  in  general :  but  young  Pen  looked  with  great  re- 
spect at  the  great  names  upon  the  superscriptions  of  his  uncle's 
letters,  and  listened  to  the  Major's  stories  about  the  fashionable 
world  with  constant  interest  and  sympathj*. 

The  elder  Pendennis's  rich  memory  was  stored  with  thot- 
sands  of  these  delightful  tales,  and  he  poured  them  into  Pen's 
willing  ear.  He  knew  the  name  and  pedigree  of  everybody  ivi 
the  Peerage,  and  everybody's  relations.  "My  dear  boy,"  he 
would  sa}',  with  a  mournful  earnestness  and  veracity,  "yoa 
cannot  begin  your  genealogical  studies  too  early;  I  wish  t> 
Heavens  you  would  read  in  Debrett  every  day.  Not  so  muc* 
the  historical  part  (for  the  pedigrees,  between  ourselves,  aie 
mail}'  of  them  very  fabulous,  and  there  are  few  families  thit 
can  show  such  a  clear  descent  as  our  own)  as  the  account  c  f 
family  alliances,  and  who  is  i^laLeu  to  whom.     I  have  kuowii  t 


88  PEXDENNIS. 

man's  career  in  life  blasted,  by  ignorance  on  this  all-important 
subject.  Why,  onl}-  last  month,  at  dinner  at  my  Lord  Hoba- 
nob's,  a  young  man,  who  has  lately  been  received  amongst^ 
us,  young  Mr.  Suckling  (author  of  a  work  I  believe),  began  to 
speak  lightly  of  Admiral  Bowser's  conduct  for  ratting  to  Minis- 
ters, in  what  1  must  own  is  the  most  audacious  manner.  But 
who  do  you  think  sat  next  and  opposite  to  this  Mr.  Suckling? 
Why  —  wh}',  next  to  him  was  Lady  Grampound  Bowser's 
daughter,  and  oi)posite  to  him  was  Lord  Grampound  Bowser's 
son-in-law.  The  infatuated  young  man  went  on  cutting  his 
jokes  at  the  Admiral's  expense,  fancying  that  all  the  world  was 
laughing  with  him,  and  I  leave  you  to  imagine  Lad3'  Hobanob's 
feelings  —  Hobanob's  !  —  those  of  every  well-bred  man,  as  the 
wretched  intrus  was  so  exposing  himself.  He  will  never  dine 
again  in  South  Street.     I  promise  you  that." 

With  such  discourses  the  Major  entertainer  /Hb  nephew,  as 
he  paced  the  terrace  in  front  of  the  house  for  his  two  hours' 
constitutional  walk,  or  as  the}'  sat  together  after  dinner  over 
their  wine.  He  grieved  that  Sir  Francis  Clavering  had  not  come 
down  to  the  Park,  to  live  in  it  since  his  marriage,  and  to  make 
a  societ}'  for  the  neighborhood.  He  mourned  that  Lord  Eyrie 
was  not  in  the  country,  tliat  ne  might  take  Pen  and  present 
him  to  his  lordship.  '*  He  has  daughters,"  the  Major  said. 
"Who  knows?  you  might  have  married  Lady  Emih' or  Lady 
Barbara  Trehawk  ;  but  all  those  dreams  are  over ;  xny  poor 
fellow,  vou  must  lie  on  the  bed  which  you  have  made  for  your- 
self." 

These  things  to  hear  did  young  Pendennis  serioush'  incUne. 
They  are  not  so  interesting  in  print  as  when  delivered  orally ; 
but  the  Major's  anecdotes  of  the  great  George,  of  the  Royal 
Dukes,  of  the  statesmen,  beauties,  and  fashionable  ladies  of  the 
day,  filled  young  Pen's  soul  with  longing  and  wonder ;  and  he 
found  the  conversations  with  his  guardian,  which  sadly  bored 
and  perplexed  poor  Mrs.  Pendennis,  for  his  own  part  never 
tedious. 

It  can't  be  said  that  Mr.  Pen's  new  guide,  philosopher  and 
friend,  discoursed  him  on  the  most  elevated  subjects,  or  treated 
the  subjects  which  he  chose  in  the  most  elevated  manner.  But 
his  morality,  such  as  it  was,  was  consistent.  It  might  not, 
perhaps,  tend  to  a  man's  progress  in  another  world,  but  it  was 
pretty  well  calculated  to  advance  his  interests  in  this  ;  and  then 
it  must  be  remembered,  that  the  Major  never  for  one  instant 
doubted  that  his  views  were  the  only  views  practicable,  and 
that  his  conduct  was  perfectly  virtuous  and  respectable.     He 


PENDENNIS.  89 

was  a  man  of  honor,  in  a  word  :  and  had  his  e3'es,  what  he 
called,  open.  He  took  pit}-  on  this  young  greenhorn  of  a 
nephew,  and  wanted  to  open  his  eyes  too. 

No  man,  for  instance,  went  more  regularly  to  church  when  iiv 
the  country  than  the  old  bachelor.  ''  It  don't  matter  so  much 
in  town,  Pen,"  he  said,  "  for  there  the  women  go  and  the  men 
are  not  missed.  But  when  a  gentleman  is  siir  ses  ten-es,  he 
must  give  an  example  to  the  country  people  :  and  if  1  could 
turn  a  tune,  1  even  think  I  should  sing.  The  Duke  of  St. 
David's,  whom  I  have  the  honor  of  knowing,  always  sings  in 
the  country,  and  let  me  tell  you,  it  has  a  doosed  fine  effect  from 
the  family  pew.  And  you  are  somebody  down  lierc.  As  long 
as  the  Claverings  are  away  you  are  the  first  man  in  the  parish  : 
or  as  good  as  an}-.  You  might  represent  the  town  if  .you  played 
3-our  cards  well.  Your  poor  dear  fatlier  would  have  done  so 
had  he  lived  ;  so  might  you.  —  Not  if  you  marry  a  ]ad\-,  hoW' 
ever  amiable,  whom  the  countiy  people  won't  meet.  —  Well, 
well :  it's  a  painful  subject.  Let  us  change  it,  my  boy."  But 
if  Major  Pendennis  changed  the  subject  once  he  recurred  to  it 
a  score  of  times  in  the  day  :  and  the  moral  of  his  discourse 
always  was,  that  Pen  was  throwing  himself  away.  Now  it  does 
not  require  much  coaxing  or  wheedling  to  make  a  simple  boy 
believe  that  he  is  a  very  fine  fellow. 

Pen  was  glad  enough,  we  have  said,  to  listen  to  his  elder's 
talk.  The  conversation  of  Captain  Costigan  became  by  no 
means  pleasant  to  him,  and  the  idea  of  that  tipsy  old  father- 
in-law  haunted  him  with  terror.  He  couldn't  bring  that  man, 
unshaven  and  reeking  of  punch,  to  associate  with  his  mother. 
Even  about  Emily  —  he  faltered  when  the  pitiless  guardian 
began  to  question  him.  "Was  she  accomplished?"  He  was 
obliged  to  own,  no.  "Was  she  clever?"  Well,  she  had  a 
very  good  average  intellect:  but  he  could  not  absolutely  say 
she  was  clever.  "  Come,  let  us  see  some  of  her  letters."  So 
Pen  confessed  that  he  had  but  those  three  of  which  we  have 
made  mention  —  and  that  they  were  but  trivial  invitations  or 
answers. 

"  She  is  cautious  enougli."  the  Major  said,  dryly.  "  She  is 
older  than  j^ou,  my  poor  boy  ; "  and  then  he  apologized  with 
the  utmost  frankness  and  humilit}-,  and  flung  himself  upon 
Pen's  good  feelings,  begging  the  lad  to  excuse  a  fond  old  uncle, 
who  had  only  his  family's  honor  in  view  —  for  Arthur  was  ready 
to  flame  up  in  indignation  whenever  Miss  Costigan's  honesty 
was  doubted,  and  swore  that  he  would  never  have  her  naoje 
mentioned  lightly,  and  never,  never  would  part  from  her. 

4 


00  TENDENNIS. 

He  repeated  this  to  his  uncle  and  his  friends  at  home,  and 
also,  it  must  be  confessed,  to  Miss  Fotheringa}'  and  the  amiable 
family  at  Chatteris,  with  whom  he  still  continued  to  spend  some 
portion  of  his  time.  Miss  Emily  was  alarmed  when  she  heard 
of  the  arrival  of  Pen's  guardian,  and  rightly  conceived  that  the 
Major  came  down  with  hostile  intentions  to  herself.  "  I  sup- 
pose 3-0  intend  to  leave  me,  now  your  grand  relation  has  come 
down  from  town.  He'll  carry  ye  otf,  and  you'll  forget  your 
poor  Emily,  Mr.  Arthur  !  " 

Forget  her !  In  her  presence,  in  that  of  Miss  Rouncy,  the 
Columbine  and  Milly's  confidential  friend  of  the  Company,  in 
the  pi-esencc  of  the  Captain  himself.  Pen  sw^ore  he  never  could 
think  of  any  other  woman  but  his  beloved  Miss  Fotheringay  ; 
and  the  Captain,  looking  up  at  his  foils,  which  were  hung  as  a 
trophy  on  the  wall  of  the  room  where  Pen  and  he  used  to  fence, 
grimly  said,  he  would  not  advoise  any  man  to  meddle  rashly 
with  the  affections  of  his  darling  child  ;  and  would  never  believe 
his  gallant  young  Arthur,  whom  he  treated  as  his  son,  whom  he 
called  his  son,  would  ever  be  guilty  of  conduct  so  revolting  to 
every  idaya  of  honor  and  humanitee. 

Pie  went  up  and  embraced  Pen  after  speaking.  He  cried, 
and  wiped  his  eye  with  one  large  dirt}'  hand  as  he  clasped  Pen 
with  the  other.  Arthur  shuddered  in  that  grasp,  and  tliought  of 
his  uncle  at  home.  His  father-in-law  looked  unusually  dirt}' 
and  shabb}' ;  the  odor  of  whiske^'-and-water  was  even  more  de- 
cided than  in  common.  How  was  he  to  bring  that  man  and  his 
mother  together?  He  trembled  Avhen  he  thought  that  he  had 
absolutel}'  written  to  Costigan  (enclosing  to  him  a  sovereign, 
the  loan  of  which  the  worth}' gentleman  needed),  and  saying, 
that  one  day  he  hoped  to  sign  himself  his  affectionate  son, 
Arthur  Pendennis.  He  was  glad  to  get  away  from  Chatteris 
that  day  ;  from  Miss  Rouncy  the  confidante ;  from  the  old  toping 
father-in-law;  from  the  divine  Emily  herself.  "O  Emily, 
Emily,"  he  cried  inwardly,  as  he  rattled  homewards  on  Re- 
becca, "  you  little  know  what  sacrifices  I  am  making  for  you  !  — 
for  you  who  are  always  so  cold,  so  cautious,  so  mistrustful !  " 

Pen  never  rode  over  to  Chatteris,  but  the  Major  found  out 
on  what  errand  the  boy  had  been.  Faithful  to  his  plan.  Major 
Pendennis  gave  his  nephew  no  let  or  hindrance  ;  but  somehow 
the  constant  feeling  that  the  senior's  eye  was  upon  him.  an 
uneasy  shame  attendant  upon  that  inevitable  confession  which 
the  evening's  conversation  would  be  sure  to  elicit  in  the  most 
natural  simple  manner,  made  Pen  go  less  fi'equently  to  sigh 
away  his  soul  at  the  feet  of  his  charnjer  than  he  had  beep  wont 


PENDENICIS.  91 

to  do  previous  to  his  uncle's  arrival.  There  was  no  use  trying 
to  deceive  him ;  there  was  no  pretext  of  dining  with  Smirke,  or 
reading  Greek  plays  with  Foker ;  Pen  felt,  when  he  returned 
from  one  of  his  flying  visits,  that  everybody  knew  whence  he 
came,  and  appeared  quite  guilty  before  his  mother  and  guardian, 
over  their  books  or  their  game  at  piquet. 

Once  having  walked  out  half  a  mile,  to  the  Fairoaks'  Inn, 
be3'ond  the  Lodge  gates,  to  be  in  readiness  for  the  Competitor 
coach,  which  changed  horses  there,  to  take  a  run  for  Chatteris, 
a  man  on  the  roof  touched  his  hat  to  the  3'oung  gentleman :  it 
was  his  uncle's  man,  Mr.  Morgan,  who  was  going  on  a  mes- 
sage for  his  master,  and  had  been  took  up  at  the  Lodge,  as  he 
said.  And  Mr.  Morgan  came  back  b}'  the  Rival,  too  ;  so  that 
Pen  had  the  pleasure  of  that  domestic's  company  both  waj's. 
Nothing  was  said  at  home.  The  lad  seemed  to  have  every 
decent  liberty  ;  and  3'et  he  felt  himself  dimly  watched  and 
guarded,  and  that  there  were  e^^es  upon  him  even  in  the  pres- 
ence of  his  Dulcinea. 

In  fact,  Pen's  suspicions  were  not  unfounded,  and  his  guar- 
dian had  sent  forth  to  gather  all  possible  information  regarding 
the  lad  and  his  interesting  young  friend.  The  discreet  and  in- 
genious Mr.  Morgan,  a  London  confidential  valet  whose  tidelity 
could  be  trusted,  had  been  to  Chatteris  more  than  once,  and 
made  every  inquiry  regarding  the  past  history  and  present 
habits  of  the  Captain  and  his  daughter.  He  delicately  cross- 
examined  the  waiters,  the  ostlers,  and  all  the  inmates  of  the 
bar  at  the  George,  and  got  from  them  what  little  they  knew 
respecting  the  worthy  Captain.  He  was  not  held  in  very  great 
regard  there,  as  it  appeared.  The  waiters  never  saw  the  color 
of  his  monej',  and  were  warned  not  to  furnish  the  poor  gentle- 
man with  an}'  liquor  for  which  some  other  party  was  not  re- 
sponsible. He  swaggered  sadly  about  the  coffee-room  there, 
consumed  a  tooth-pick,  and  looked  over  the  paper,  and  if  any 
friend  asked  him  to  dinner  he  stayed. 

From  the  servants  of  the  officers  at  the  barracks  Mr.  Morgan 
found  that  the  Captain  had  so  frequently  and  outrageously  in- 
ebriated himself  there,  that  Colonel  Swallowtail  had  forbidden 
him  the  mess-room.  The  indefatigable  Morgan  then  put  him- 
self in  communication  with  some  of  the  inferior  actors  at  the 
theatre,  and  pumped  them  over  their  cigars  and  punch,  and  all 
agreed  that  Costigan  was  i)oor,  sliflbby,  and  given  to  debt  and 
to  drink.  But  there  was  not  a  breath  upon  the  reputation  of 
i\Iiss  Fothei'ingay  :  her  father's  courage  was  reported  to  have 
displayed  itself  on  more  than  one  occasion  towards  persons 


92  PENDENNIS. 

disposed  to  treat  his  daughter  with  freedom.  She  never  came 
to  the  theatre  but  with  her  father :  in  his  most  inebriated 
moments,  that  gentleman  kept  a  watch  over  her ;  finally  Mr. 
Morgan,  from  his  own  experience,  added  that  he  had  been  to 
see  her  hact,  and  was  uncommon  delighted  with  the  perform- 
ance, besides  thinking  her  a  most  splendid  woman. 

Mrs.  Creed,  the  pew-opener,  confirmed  these  statements  to 
Doctor  Portman,  who  examined  her  personally.  Mrs.  Creed 
had  nothing  unfavorable  to  her  lodger  to  divulge.  She  saw 
nobod}- ;  only  one  or  two  ladies  of  the  theatre.  The  Captain 
did  intoxicate  himself  sometimes,  and  did  not  alwa3's  pay  his 
rent  regularly,  but  he  did  when  he  had  money,  or  rather  Miss 
Fotheringay  did.  Since  the  3'oung  gentleman  from  Clavering 
had  been  and  took  lessons  in  fencing,  one  or  two  more  had 
come  from  the  barracks ;  Sir  Derb}^  Oaks,  and  his  j'oung 
friend,  Mr.  Foker,  which  was  often  together ;  and  which  was 
always  driving  over  from  Baymouth  in  the  tandem.  But 
on  the  occasions  of  the  lessons.  Miss  F.  was  ver}'  seldom 
present,  and  generallj'  came  down  stairs  to  Mrs.  Creed's  own 
room. 

The  Doctor  and  the  Major  consulting  together  as  they  often 
did,  groaned  in  spirit  over  that  information.  Major  Pendennis 
openly  expressed  his  disappointment ;  and,  I  believe,  the  Divine 
himself  was  ill-pleased  at  not  being  able  to  pick  a  hole  in  poor 
Miss  Fotheringay's  reputation. 

Even  about  Pen  himself,  Mrs.  Creed's  reports  were  desper- 
atel}'  favorable.  "  A\^he never  he  come,"  Mrs.  Creed  said, 
"she  always  have  me  or  one  of  the  children  with  her.  And 
Mrs.  Creed,  marm,  says  she,  if  you  please  marm,  3-ou'll  on  no 
account  leave  the  room  when  that  young  gentleman's  here. 
And  many's  the  time  I've  seen  him  a  lookin'  as  if  he  wished  I 
was  away,  poor  young  man  :  and  he  took  to  coming  in  service 
time,  when  I  wasn't  at  home,  of  course  :  but  she  always  had 
one  of  the  bo3s  up  if  her  Pa  wasn't  at  home,  or  old  Mr.  Bows 
with  her  a  teaching  of  her  her  lesson,  or  one  of  the  3'oung  ladies 
of  the  thea^'ter." 

It  was  all  true :  whatever  encouragements  might  have  been 
given  him  before  he  avowed  his  passion,  the  prudence  of  Miss 
Emily  was  prodigious  after  Pen  had  declared  himself:  and  the 
poor  fellow  chafed  against  her  hopeless  reserve. 

The  Major  surveyed  the  state  of  things  with  a  sigh.  "  If  it 
were  but  a  temporary  liaison,"  the  excellent  man  said,  "one 
could  bear  it.  A  young  fellow  must  sow  his  wild  oats,  and 
that  sort  of  thing.     But  a  vutuous  attachment  is  the  deuce 


PENDENNIS.  93 

It  comes  of  the  d — d  romantic  uotions  boj-s  get  from  being 
brought  up  b^- women." 

' '  Allow  lue  to  say,  Major,  that  you  ©peak  a  little  too  like  a 
man  of  the  world,"  rephed  the  Doctor.  ''  Nothing  can  be  more 
desirable  for  Pen  than  a  virtuous  attachment  for  a  young  lady 
of  his  own  rank  and  with  a  corresponding  fortune  —  this 
present  infatuation,  of  course,  I  must  deplore  as  sincerely'  as 
you  do.  If  I  were  his  guardian  I  should  command  him  to 
give  it  up." 

"  The  A'ery  means,  I  tell  30U,  to  make  him  marry  to-morrow. 
We  have  got  time  from  him,  that  is  all,  and  we  must  do  our 
best  with  that." 

"  I  say.  Major,"  said  the  Doctor,  at  the  end  of  the  conver- 
sation in  which  the  above  subject  was  discussed  —  "I  am  not, 
of  course,  a  pla3'-going  man  —  but  suppose,  I  sa}',  we  go  and 
see  her." 

The  Major  laughed  —  he  liad  been  a  fortnight  at  Fairoaks, 
and,  strange  to  say,  had  not  thought  of  that.  "Well,"  he 
said,  ''•  wh}'  not?  After  all,  it  is  not  my  niece,  but  Miss  Foth- 
eringay  the  actress,  and  we  have  as  good  a  right  as  any  other 
of  the  public  to  see  her  if  we  pav  our  money."  So  upon  a  day 
when  it  was  arranged  that  Pen  was  to  dine  at  home,  and  pass 
the  evening  with  his  mother,  the  two  elderly  gentlemen  drove 
over  to  Chatteris  in  the  Doctor's  chaise,  and  there,  like  a 
couple  of  jolly  bachelors,  dined  at  the  George  Inn,  before  pro- 
ceeding to  the  play. 

Only  two  other  guests  were  in  the  room,  —  an  officer  of  the 
regiment  quartered  at  Chatteris,  and  a  3'oung  gentleman  whom 
the  Doctor  thought  he  had  somewhere  seen.  They  left  them 
at  their  meal,  however,  and  hastened  to  the  theatre.  It  was 
"  Hamlet"  over  again.  Shakspeare  was  Article  XL.  of  stout 
old  Doctor  Portman's  creed,  to  which  he  always  made  a  point 
of  testifying  publiclj^  at  least  once  in  a  year. 

We  have  described  the  pla}-  before,  and  how  those  who  saw 
Miss  Fotheringay  perform  in  Ophelia  saw  precisely  the  same 
thing  on  one  night  as  on  another.  Both  the  elderly  gentlemen 
looked  at  her  with  extraordinary  interest,  thinking  how  very 
much  3"Oung  Pen  was  charmed  with  her. 

"Gad,"  said  the  Major,  between  his  teeth,  as  he  surve3-ed 
her  when  she  was  called  forward  as  usual,  and  swept  her  curt- 
sies to  the  scant3'  audience,  "  the  3'Oung  rascal  has  not  made  a 
bad  choice." 

The  Doctor  applauded  her  loudly  and  loyally-.  "  Upon  my 
word,"  said  he,  "  she  is  a  verj-  clever  actress  ;  and  I  must  sa}', 


94  PENDENNIS. 

Major,  she  is  endowed  with  very  considerable  personal  attra*. 
tions." 

'"  So  that  young  officer  thinks  in  the  stage-box,"  Major  Pen- 
dennis  answered,  and  he  pointed  out  to  Doctor  Portman's  atten- 
tion the  3'oung  dragoon  of  the  George  Coffee-room,  who  sat  in 
the  box  in  question,  and  applauded  with  immense  enthusiasm. 
She  looked  extremely  sweet  upon  him  too,  thought  the  Major : 
.but  that's  their  way  —  and  he  shut  up  his  natt}'  opera-glass  and 
pocketed  it  as  if  he  wished  to  see  no  more  that  night.  Nor 
did  the  Doctor,  of  course,  propose  to  sta}'  for  the  after-piece, 
so  the}-  rose  and  left  the  theatre  ;  the  Doctor  returning  to  Mrs. 
Portman,  Avho  was  on  a  visit  at  the  Deanery,  and  the  Major 
walking  home  full  of  thought  towards  the  George,  where  he  had 
bespoken  a  bed. 


CHAPTER  X. 

FACING    THE    ENEMY. 

Sauntering  homewards,  Major  Pendennis  reached  the  hotel 
presentl}',  and  found  Mr.  Morgan,  his  faithful  valet,  awaiting 
him  at  the  door,  who  stopped  his  master  as  he  was  about  to 
take  a  candle  to  go  to  bed,  and  said,  with  his  usual  air  of  know- 
ing deference,  "•  1  think,  sir,  if  you  would  go  into  the  coffee- 
room,  there's  a  young  gentleman  there  as  you  would  like  to  see." 

"What,  is  Mr.  Arthur  here?"  the  Major  said,  in  great 
anger. 

"No,  sir  —  but  his  great  friend,  Mr.  Foker,  sir.  Lady 
Hagnes  Token's  son  is  here,  sir.  He's  been  asleep  in  the  coffee- 
room  since  he  took  his  dinner,  and  has  just  rung  for  his  coffee, 
sir.  And  I  think,  p'raps,  3'ou  might  like  to  git  into  conversa- 
tion with  him,"  the  valet  said,  opening  the  coffee-room  door. 

The  Major  entered  ;  and  there  indeed  was  Mr.  Foker,  the 
only  occupant  of  the  place.  He  had  intended  to  go  to  the  pla}' 
too,  but  sleep  had  overtaken  him  after  a  copious  meal,  and  he 
had  flung  up  his  legs  on  the  bench,  and  indulged  in  a  nap 
instead  of  the  dramatic  amusement.  The  Major  was  medi- 
tating how  to  address  the  3'oung  man,  but  the  latter  prevented 
him  that  trouble. 

"  Like  to  look  at  the  evening  paper,  sir?"  said  Mr.  Foker, 
who  was  always  communicative  aud  affable  ;  and  he  took  up 
the  "  Globe  "  from  his  table,  and  offered  it  to  the  new  comer. 


TENDENiVlS.  95 

"I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,"  said  the  Major,  with  a 
grateful  bow  and  smile.  "  If  I  don't  mistake  the  family  like- 
ness, I  have  the  pleasure  of  speaking  to  Mr.  Henr}-  Foker, 
Lady  Agnes  Foker's  son.  I  have  the  happiness  to  name  her 
ladyship  among  m}'  acquaintances  —  and  you  bear,  sir,  a  Rosh- 
erville  face." 

'■'■  Hullo  !  I  beg  your  pardon,"  Mr.  Foker  said,  "  I  took  you  " 
—  he  was  going  to  say  —  ''I  took  you  for  a  commercial  gent." 
But  he  stopped  that  phrase.  '•  To  whom  have  I  the  pleasure  of 
speaking?"  he  added. 

"  To  a  relative  of  a  friend  and  schoolfellow  of  3'ours  — 
Arthur  Pendennis,  my  nephew,  who  has  often  spoken  to  me 
about  j'ou  in  terms  of  great  regard.  I  am  Major  Pendennis,  of 
whom  you  may  have  heard  him  speak.  May  1  take  ni}-  soda- 
water  at  your  table  ?  I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  sitting  at  your 
gi'and  father's." 

"  Sir,  you  do  me  proud,"  said  Mr.  Foker,  with  much  cour- 
tes3\     "  And  so  you  are  Arthur  Pendennis's  uncle,  are  3-ou?" 

"  And  guardian,"  added  the  Major. 

"  He's  as  good  a  fellow  as  ever  stepped,  sir,"  said  Mr. 
Foker. 

'•  I  am  glad  you  think  so." 

"And  clever,  too  —  I  was  always  a  stupid  chap,  1  was  — 
but  you  see,  sir,  I  know  'em  when  the}'  are  clever,  and  like  'era 
of  that  sort." 

"  You  show  your  taste  and  3'our  modesty,  too,"  said  the 
Major.  "  I  have  heard  Arthur  repeatedl}' speak  of  you,  and  he 
said  your  talents  were  very  good." 

"  I'm  not  good  at  the  books,"  Mr.  Foker  said,  wagging  his 
head  —  ' '  never  could  manage  that  —  Pendennis  could  —  he 
used  to  do  half  the  chaps'  verses  —  and  j-et  you  are  his  guar- 
dian ;  and  I  hope  you  will  pardon  me  for  saying  that  I  think 
he's  what  we  call  a  flat,"  the  candid  3'oung  gentleman  said. 

The  Major  found  himself  on.  the  instant  in  the  midst  of  a 
most  interesting  and  confidential  conversation.  "  And  how  is 
Arthur  a  flat?"  he  asked,  with  a  smile. 

"  You  know."  Foker  answered,  winking  at  him  — he  would 
have  winked  at  the  Duke  of  Wellington  with  just  as  little  scru- 
ple.    "  You  know  Arthur's  a  flat,  — about  women  I  mean." 

"He  is  not  the  first  of  us,  ni}'  dear  Mr.  Harry,"  answered 
the  Major.  "  I  have  heard  something  of  this  —  but  pra}-  tell 
me  more." 

"  Wh}',  sir,  you  see —  it's  parti}'  my  fault.  We  went  to  the 
play  one  night,  and  Pen  was  struck  all  of  a  heap  with  Miss 


96  PENDENNIS. 

Fotheringay  —  Costigan  her  real  name  is  —  an  uncommon  fine 
gal  she  is  too  ;  and  the  next  morning  I  introduced  him  to  the 
General,  as  we  call  her  father — a  regular  old  scamp  —  and 
such  a  bo^-  for  the  whiskey-and-water !  —  and  he's  gone  on 
being  intimate  there.  And  he's  fallen  in  love  with  her  —  and 
I'm  blessed  if  he  hasn't  proposed  to  her,"  Foker  said,  slapping 
his  hand  on  the  table,  until  all  the  dessert  began  to  jingle. 

"  What !  you  know  it  too?  "  asked  the  Major. 

"Know  it!  don't  I?  and  many  more  too.  We  were  talk- 
ing about  it  at  mess,  yesterday,  and  chaffing  Derby  Oaks  — 
until  he  was  as  mad  as  a  hatter.  Know  Sir  Derby  Oaks  ?  We 
dined  together,  and  he  went  to  the  play :  we  were  standing  at 
the  door  smoking,  I  remember,  when  3'ou  passed  in  to  dinner." 

"  I  remember  Sir  Thomas  Oaks,  his  father,  before  he  was  a 
Baronet  or  a  Knight ;  he  lived  in  Cavendish  Square,  and  was 
Physician  to  Queen  Charlotte." 

"  The  young  one  is  making  the  money  spin,  I  can  tell  j'ou," 
Mr.  Foker  said. 

"  And  is  Sir  Derby  Oaks,"  the  Major  said,  with  great  delight 
and  anxiety,  "  another  soupirMit^" 

"  Another  ivhat  ? "  inquired  Mr.  Foker. 

"  Another  admirer  of  Miss  Fotheringay  ?  " 

"  Lord  bless  you  !  we  call  him  Mondaj's,  Wednesdays,  and 
Fridays,  and  Pen  Tuesdajs,  Thursda3's,  and  Saturdays.  But 
mind  you,  nothing  wrong !  No,  no !  Miss  F.  is  a  deal  too 
wide  awake  for  that.  Major  Pendennis.  She  plays  one  off 
against  the  other.     What  you  call  two  strings  to  her  bow." 

"  I  think  you  seem  tolerably  wide  awake,  too,  Mr.  Foker," 
Pendennis  said,  laughing. 

"  Pretty  well,  thank  30U,  sir  —  how  are  3'ou?  "  Foker  replied, 
imperturbably.  "I'm  not  clever,  p'raps:  but  I  am  rather 
downy  ;  and  partial  friends  sa3'  I  know  what's  o'clock  tolerabl3' 
well.     Can  I  tell  you  the  time  of  da3'  in  an3'  way  ?  " 

"  Upon  m3'  word,"  the  Major  answered,  quite  delighted,  "  I 
think  3-ou  ma3'  be  of  ver3'  great  sei"vice  to  me.  You  are  a 
young  man  of  the  world,  and  with  such  one  likes  to  deal.  And 
as  such  I  need  not  inform  you  that  our  famil3'^  is  b3'  no  means 
delighted  at  this  absurd  intrigue  in  which  Arthur  is  engaged." 

"  I  should  rather  think  not,"  said  Mr.  Foker.  "  Connection 
not  eligible.  Too  much  beer  drunk  on  the  premises.  No  Irish 
need  appl3'.     That  I  take  to  be  3'our  meaning." 

The  Major  said  it  was,  exactly  :  and  he  proceeded  to  examine 
his  new  acquaintance  regarding  the  amiable  famil3'  into  which 
his  nephew  proposed  to  enter,  and  soon  got  from  the  candid 


PENDENNIS.  97 

witness  a  number  of  particulars  regarding  the  House  of  Cos- 
tigan. 

We  must  do  Mr.  Foker  the  justice  to  say  that  he  spoke  most 
favorabh"  of  Mr.  and  Miss  Costigan's  moral  character.  "  You 
see,"  said  he,  '•  I  think  the  General  is  fond  of  the  jovial  bowl, 
and  if  I  wanted  to  be  ver}'  certain  of  m}-  money,  it  isn't  in  his 
pocket  I'd  invest  it  —  but  he  has  alwa^'s  kept  a  watchful  e3'^e  on 
his  daughter,  and  neither  he  nor  she  will  stand  anything  but 
what's  honorable.  Pen's  attentions  to  her  are  talked  about  in 
the  whole  Compau}',  and  I  hear  all  about  them  from  a  young 
lady  who  used  to  be  very  intimate  with  her,  and  with  whose 
famih-  I  sometimes  take  tea  in  a  friendly  way.  Miss  Rouncy 
sa3s,  Sir  Derb}- Oaks  has  been  hanging  about  Miss  Fotheringay 
ever  since  his  regiment  has  been  down  here  ;  but  Pen  has  come 
in  and  cut  him  out  latel}*,  which  has  made  the  Baronet  so  mad, 
that  he  has  been  very  near  on  the  point  of  proposing  too. 
Wish  he  would  ;  and  you'd  see  which  of  the  two  Miss  Fotherin- 
gay would  jump  at." 

"I  thought  as  much,"  the  Major  said.  "  You  give  me  a 
great  deal  of  pleasure,  Mr.  Foker.  I  wish  I  could  have  seen 
3'ou  before." 

"  Didn't  like  to  put  in  my  oar,"  replied  the  other.  "  Don't 
speak  till  I'm  asked,  when,  if  there's  no  objections,  I  speak 
pretty  freeh'.  Heard  3'our  man  had  been  hankering  about  my 
servant  —  didn't  know  myself  what  was  going  on  until  Miss 
Fotheringay  and  Miss  Rouncy  had  the  row  about  the  ostrich 
feathers,  when  Miss  R.  told  me  everything." 

"Miss  Rounc}',  I  gather,  was  the  confidante  of  the 
other." 

"Confidant?  I  believe  you.  Wh\',  she's  twice  as  clever  a 
girl  as  Fotheringay,  and  literary  and  that,  while  Miss  Foth 
can't  do  much  more  than  read." 

"  She  can  write,"  said  the  Major,  remembering  Pen's  breast- 
pocket. 

Foker  broke  out  into  a  sardonic  "  He,  he!  Rouncy  writes 
her  letters,"  he  said:  "  ever}'  one  of  'em;  and  since  the3've 
quarrelled,  she  don't  know  how  the  deuce  to  get  on.  Miss 
Rounc3'  is  an  uncommon  pretty  hand,  whereas  the  other  one 
makes  dreadful  work  of  the  writing  and  spelling  when  Bows 
ain't  b3'.  Rouncy's  been  settin'  her  copies  lately  —  she  writes 
a  beautiful  hand,  Rounc3'  does." 

"  I  suppose  30U  know  it  prett3-  well,"  said  the  Major,  archl3' : 
upon  which  Mr.  Foker  winked  at  him  again. 

"  I  would  give  a  great  deal  to  have  a  specimen  of  her  hand- 


!)8  PENDENNIS. 

^rriting,"  continued  Major  Pendennis,  ''1  dare  say  you  could 
g;ive  me  one." 

"That  would  be  too  bad,"  Foker  replied.  "Miss  F.'s 
Ti'ritin'  ain't  so  very  bad,  I  dare  sa}' ;  only  she  got  Miss  R.  to 
write  the  first  letter,  and  has  gone  on  ever  since.  But  you 
mark  my  word,  that  till  they  are  friends  again  the  letters  will 
stop." 

"  I  hope  they  will  never  be  reconciled,"  the  Major  said  with 
great  sincerity.  "  You  must  feel,  my  dear  sir,  as  a  man  of  the 
■world,  how  fatal  to  my  nephew's  prospects  in  life  is  this  step 
which  he  contemplates,  and  how  eager  we  all  must  be  to  free 
him  from  this  absurd  engagement." 

"  He  has  come  out  uncommon  strong,"  said  Mr,  Foker  ;  "I 
have  seen  his  verses  ;  Rouncy  copied  'em.  And  1  said  to  m}'- 
self  when  I  saw 'em,  'Catch  me  writin'  verses  to  a  woman, — 
that's  all.' " 

"  He  has  made  a  fool  of  himself,  as  many  a  good  fellow  has 
liefore  him.  How  can  we  make  him  see  his  folly,  and  cure  it? 
]  am  sure  you  will  give  us  what  aid  3'ou  can  in  extricating  a 
g  enerous  young  man  from  such  a  pair  of  schemers  as  this  father 
and  daughter  seem  to  be.  Love  on  the  lady's  side  is  out  of 
tie  question." 

"  Love,  indeed  !  "  Foker  said.  "  If  Pen  hadn't  two  thou- 
s  ind  a-year  when  he  came  of  age  —  " 

"If  Pen  hadn't  whatV  cried  out  the  Major  in  astonish- 
]|  lent. 

' '  Two  thousand  a-year :  hasn't  he  got  two  thousand  a-year  ? 
file  General  saj's  he  has." 

"  M}'  dear  friend,"  shrieked  out  the  Major,  with  an  eagerness 
•M'hich  this  gentleman  rarely  showed,  "thank  3'OU !  —  thank 
you  !  —  I  begin  to  see  now.  —  Two  thousand  a  year  !  Why, 
his  mother  has  but  five  Imndred  a-year  in  the  world.  —  She  is 
likel}'  to  live  to  eighty,  and  Arthur  has  not  a  shilling  but  what 
she  can  allow  him." 

"  What !  he  ain't  rich  then?"  Foker  asked. 

"  Upon  my  honor  he  has  no  more  than  what  I  say." 

"  And  you  ain't  going  to  leave  him  an\'thing?" 

The  Major  had  sunk  every  shilling  he  could  scrape  together 
on  annuity,  and  of  course  was  going  to  leave  Pen  nothing ;  but 
he  did  not  tell  Foker  this.  "  How  much  do  you  think  a  Major 
on  half-pay  can  save?"  he  asked.  "If  these  people  have 
been  looking  at  him  as  a  fortune,  they  are  utterly  mistaken 
--and — and  you  have  made  me  the  happiest  man  in  the 
A»orld." 


PENDEXNIS.  99 

"  Sir  to  YOU,"  said  Mr.  Foker,  politely,  and  when  they 
parted  for  the  night  they  shook  hands  with  the  greatest  cor- 
diality ;  the  younger  gentleman  promising  the  elder  not  to  leave 
Chatteris  without  a  further  conversation  in  the  morning.  And 
as  the  Major  went  up  to  his  room,  and  Mr.  Folier  smoked  his 
cigar  against  the  door  piUars  of  the  George,  Pen,  very  likely, 
ten  miles  off,  was  lying  in  bed  kissing  the  letter  from  his 
Emily. 

The  next  morning,  before  Mr.  Foker  drove  off  in  his  drag, 
the  insinuating  Major  had  actually'  got  a  letter  of  Miss  Rouncy's 
in  his  own  pocket-book.  Let  it  be  a  lesson  to  women  how 
the}'  write.  And  in  ver}-  high  spirits  Major  Pendennis  went  to 
call  upon  Doctor  Portman  at  the  Deanery,  and  told  him  what 
happ}-  discoveries  he  had  made  on  the  previous  night.  A.s 
the}'  sat  in  confidential  conversation  in  the  Dean's  oak  break- 
fast parlor  they  could  look  across  the  lawn  and  see  Captain 
Costigan's  window,  at  which  poor  Pen  had  been  only  too  visible 
some  three  weeks  since.  The  Doctor  was  most  indignant  against 
Mrs.  Creed,  the  landlady,  for  her  duplicit}',  in  concealing  Sir 
Derby  Oaks's  constant  visits  to  her  lodgers,  and  threatened  to 
excommunicate  her  out  of  the  Cathedral.  But  the  wary  Major 
thought  that  all  things  were  for  the  best ;  and,  having  taken 
counsel  with  himself  over  night,  felt  himself  quite  strong  enough 
to  go  and  face  Captain  Costigan. 

"I'm  going  to  fight  the  dragon,"  he  said,  with  a  laugh,  to 
Dr.  Portman. 

"  And  I  shrive  3rou.  air,  and  bid  good  fortune  go  with  you," 
answered  the  Doctor.  Perhaps  he  and  Mrs.  Portman  and 
Miss  Mira,  as  they  sat  with  their  friend,  the  Dean's  lady, 
in  her  drawing-room,  looked  up  more  than  once  at  the  ene- 
m3''s  window  to  see  if  they  could  perceive  an}'  signs  of  the 
combat. 

The  Major  walked  round,  according  to  the  directions  given 
him,  and  soon  found  Mrs.  Creed's  little  door.  He  passed  it, 
and  as  he  ascended  to  Captain  Costigan's  apartment,  he  could 
hear  a  stamping  of  feet,  and  a  great  shouting  of  "Ha,  ha!" 
within. 

"  It's  Sir  Derb}'  Oaks  taking  his  fencing  lesson,"  said  the 
child,  who  piloted  Major  Pendennis.  "  He  takes  it  Mondays, 
Wednesdays,  and  Fridays."/ 

The  Major  knocked,  and  at  length  a  tall  gentleman  came 
forth,  with  a  foil  and  mask  in  one  hand,  and  a  fencing  glove  on 
the  other. 

Pendennis  made  him  a  deferential  bow.     "  I  believe  I  ha^'<^ 


100  PENDEI^NIS. 

the  honor  of  speaking  to  Captain  Costigan  —  M3'  name  is  Major 
Pendennis." 

The  Captain  brought  his  weapon  up  to  the  salute,  and  said, 
*'  Major,  the  lionor  is  moine  ;  I'm  deloighted  to  see  ye." 


CHAPTER  XI. 

NEGOTIATION. 

The  Major  and  Captain  Costigan  were  old  soldiers  and 
aecustomed  to  face  the  enemy,  so  we  ma^'  presume  that  they 
retained  their  presence  of  mind  perfect)}' :  but  the  rest  of  the 
party  assembled  in  Cos's  sitting-room  were,  perhaps,  a  little 
flurried  at  Pendennis's  apparition.  Miss  Fotheringay's  slow 
heart  began  to  beat  no  doubt,  for  her  cheek  flushed  up  witli  a 
great  healthy  blush,  as  Lieutenant  Sir  Derby  Oaks  looked  at 
her  with  a  scowl.  The  little  crooked  old  man  in  the  window- 
seat,  who  had  been  witnessing  the  fencing-match  between  the 
two  gentlemen  (whose  stamping  and  jumping  had  been  such  as 
to  cause  him  to  give  up  all  attempts  to  continue  writing  the 
theatre  music,  in  the  copj'ing  of  which  he  had  been  engaged) 
looked  up  eagerly  towards  the  new  comer  as  the  Major  of  the 
well-blacked  boots  entered  the  apartment,  distributing  the  most 
graceful  bows  to  everybod}^  present. 

"Me  daughter  —  me  friend,  Mr.  Bows  —  me  gallant  3'oung 
pupil  and  friend,  I  may  call  'um.  Sir  Derby  Oaks,"  said  Costi- 
gan, splendidly  waving  his  hand,  and  pointing  each  of  these 
individuals  to  the  Major's  attention.  "  In  one  moment.  Meejor, 
I'm  3'our  humble  servant,"  and  to  dash  into  the  little  adjoining 
chamber  where  he  slept,  to  give  a  twist  to  his  lank  hair  with  his 
hair-brush  (a  wonderful  and  ancient  piece),  to  tear  off"  his  old 
stock  and  put  on  a  new  one  which  Emily  had  constructed  for 
him,  and  to  assume  a  handsome  clean  collar,  and  the  new  coat 
which  had  been  ordered  upon  the  occasion  of  Miss  Fotheringay's 
beneflt,  was  with  the  still  active  Costigan  the  work  of  a  minute. 

After  him  Sir  Derby  entered,  and  presently  emerged  from 
the  same  apartment,  where  he  also  cased  himself  in  his  little 
shell-jacket,  which  fitted  tightl}^  upon  the  3'Oung  officer's  big 
person  ;  and  which  he,  and  Miss  Fotheringa}',  and  poor  Pen 
too,  perhaps,  admired  prodigiousl}'. 

Meanwhile  conversation  was  engaged  in  between  the  actress 


PENDENNIS.  101 

and  the  new  comer;  and  the  usual  remarks  about  the  weather 
had  been  interchanged  before  Costigan  re-entered  in  his  new 
"  shoot,"  as  he  called  it. 

"  I  needn't  apologoise  to  ye,  Meejor,"  he  said,  in  his  richest 
and  most  courteous  manner,  - '  for  receiving  ^e  in  me  shirt- 
sleeves." 

"  An  old  soldier  can't  be  better  emplo^-ed  than  in  teaching  a 
young  one  the  use  of  his  sword,"  answered  the  Major,  gallantly, 
"  I  remember  in  old  times  hearing  that  you  could  use  yours 
prett}'  well,  Captain  Costigan." 

"■  What,  ye'xe  heard  of  Jack  Costigan,  Major,"  said  the 
other,  greatly. 

The  Major  had,  indeed  ;  he  had  pumped  his  nephew  concern- 
ing his  new  friend,  the  Irish  officer ;  and  said  that  he  perfectly 
well  recollected  meeting  Mr.  Costigan,  and  hearing  him  sing  at 
Sir  Richard  Strachan's  table  at  Walcheren. 

At  this  information,  and  the  bland  and  cordial  manner  in 
which  it  was  conveyed,  Bows  looked  up,  entirely  puzzled. 
'•But  we  will  talk  of  these  matters  another  time,"  the  Major 
continued,  perhaps  not  wishing  to  commit  himself;  ''it  is  to 
Miss  Fotheringay  that  I  came  to  pay  ni}'  respects  to-da}' :  " 
and  he  performed  another  bow  for  her,  so  courth'  and  gracious, 
that  if  she  had  been  a  duchess  he  could  not  have  made  it  more 
handsome. 

"'I  had  heard  of  3'our  performances  from  my  nephew, 
madam,"  the  Major  said,  "who  raves  about  you,  as  I  believe 
you  know  pretty  well.  But  Arthur  is  but  a  boy,  and  a  wild 
enthusiastic  young  fellow,  whose  opinions  one  uuist  not  take  au 
pied  de  la  lettre ;  and  1  confess  I  was  anxious  to  judge  for  my- 
self. Permit  me  to  say  3'Our  performance  delighted  and  aston- 
ished me.  I  have  seen  our  best  actresses,  and,  on  my  word,  I 
think  you  surpass  them  all.  You  are  as  majestic  as  Mrs. 
Siddons." 

"Faith,  I  alwaj's  said  so,"  Costigan  said,  winking  at  his 
daughter:  "Major,  take  a  chair."  Mill}^  rose  at  this  hint, 
took  an  unripped  satin  garment  off  the  only  A'acant  seat,  and 
brought  the  latter  to  Major  Pendennis  with  one  of  her  finest 
curtsies. 

"  You  are  as  pathetic  as  Miss  O'Neill,"  he  continued,  bow- 
ing and  seating  himself;  "your  snatches  of  song  remind  me  of 
Mrs.  Jordan  in  her  best  time,  when  we  were  young  men.  Cap- 
tain Costigan  ;  and  ^our  manner  reminded  me  of  Mars.  Did 
you  ever  see  the  JNIars.  Miss  Fotheringay?" 

"There  was  two  Mahers  in  Crow  Street,"  remarked  Miss 


102  PENDENNIS. 

Emily :  "  Fanny  was  well  enough,  but  Bidth'  was  no  gi'oat 
things." 

"  Sure,  the  Major  means  the  god  of  war,  Milly,  my  dear," 
interposed  the  parent. 

'*It  is  not  that  Mars  I  meant,  though  Venus,  I  suppose, 
may  be  pardoned  for  thinlcing  about  him  ;  "  the  Major  repUed 
with  a  smile  directed  in  full  to  Sir  Derby  Oaks,  who  now  re- 
entered in  his  shell-jacket,  but  the  lady  did  not  understand  the 
words  of  which  he  made  use,  nor  did  the  compliment  at  all 
pacify  Sir  Derb}',  who,  probably,  did  not  understand  it  either, 
and  at  any  rate  received  it  with  great  sulkiness  and  stiffness  ; 
scowling  uneasily  at  Miss  Fotheringa}',  with  an  expression 
which  seemed  to  ask  what  the  deuce  does  this  man  here? 

jVIajor  Pendennis  was  not  in  the  least  annoyed  by  the  gentla- 
man's  ill-humor.  On  the  contrary,  it  delighted  him.  ''So," 
thought  he,  "  a  rival  is  in  the  field  ;  "  and  he  offered  up  vow;? 
that  Sir  Derby  might  be,  not  onl}-  a  rival,  but  a  winner  too,  iti 
this  love-match  in  which  he  and  Pen  were  engaged. 

"  I  fear  I  interrupted  your  fencing  lesson  ;  but  my  stay  in 
Chatteris  is  ver}-  short,  and  I  was  anxious  to  make  myself 
known  to  my  old  fellow-campaigner  Captain  Costigan,  and  to 
see  a  ladv  nearer  who  had  charmed  me  so  much  from  the  stage. 
I  was  not  the  only  man  epris  last  night,  Miss  Fotheringay  (if  I 
must  call  you  so,  though  your  own  family  name  is  a  very  ancient 
and  noble  one).  There  was  a  reverend  friend  of  mine,  who 
went  home  in  raptures  with  Ophelia  ;  and  I  saw  Sir  Derby  Oaks 
fling  a  bouquet  which  no  actress  ever  merited  better.  I  should 
have  brought  one  myself,  had  I  known  what  I  was  going  to 
see.  Are  not  those  the  very  flow^ers  in  a  glass  of  water  on  the 
mantel-piece  yonder?" 

"  I  am  very  fond  of  flowers,"  said  Miss  Fotheringay,  with  a 
languishing  ogle  at  Sir  Derby  Oaks  —  but  the  Baronet  still 
scowled  sulkily. 

"Sweets  to  the  sweet  —  isn't  that  the  expression  of  th3 
|)lay  ?  "  Major  Pendennis  asked,  bent  upon  being  good-humored. 

"Ton  my  life,  I  don't  know.  Very  likefy  it  is.  I  ain't 
much  of  a  literary  man,"  answered  Sir  Derby. 

"Is  it  possible?"  the  Major  continued,  with  an  air  of  sur- 
prise. "  You  don't  inherit  your  father's  love  of  letters,  then, 
Sir  Derby?  He  was  a  remarkably  fine  scholar,  and  I  had  tht 
honor  of  knowing  him  very  well." 

"  Indeed,"  said  the  other,  and  gave  a  sulky  wag  of  his  head. 

"  He  saved  my  life,"  continued  Pendennis. 

"Did  he  now?"  cried  Miss  Fotheringay,  rolling  her  eyee 


PENDENNIS.  103 

first  upon  the  Major  with  surprise,  then  towards  Sir  Derby  with 
gratitude  —  but  the  hitter  was  proof  against  those  glances  ;  and 
far  from  appearing  to  be  pleased  that  the  Apothecary,  his 
father,  should  have  saved  Major  Pendennis's  life,  the  young 
man  actually  looked  as  if  he  wished  the  event  had  turned  the 
other  wa}'. 

'•'•  M\-  father,  I  believe,  was  a  very  good  doctor,"  the  young 
gentleman  said  by  wa}-  of  reply.  "  I'm  not  in  that  line  myself. 
I  wish  30U  good  morning,  sir.  I've  got  an  appointment  —  Cos, 
bye-bye  —  Miss  Fothcringa}-,  good  morning."  And,  in  spite 
of  the  young  lady's  imploring  looks  and  appealing  smiles,  the 
Dragoon  bowed  stiffl}'  out  of  the  room,  and  the  clatter  of  his 
sabre  was  heard  as  he  strode  down  the  creaking  stair ;  and  the 
angrv  tones  of  his  voice  as  he  cursed  little  Tom  Creed,  who  was 
disporting  in  the  passage,  and  whose  peg-top  Sir  Derby  kicked 
away  with  an  oath  into  the  street. 

The  Major  did  not  smile  in  the  least,  though  he  had  every 
reason  to  be  amused.  *■'  Monstrous  handsome  3'oung  man  that 
—  as  fine  a  looking  soldier  as  ever  I  saw,"  he  said  to  Costigan. 

''A  credit  to  the  army  and  to  human  nature  in  general," 
answered  Costigan.  ''  A  3'oung  man  of  refoined  manners,  po- 
lite aflabilitee,  and  princely  fortune.  His  table  is  sumptuous  : 
he's  adawr'd  in  the  regiment:  and  he  rides  sixteen  stone." 

"  A  perfect  champion,"  said  the  Major,  laughing.  ^'  I  have 
no  doubt  all  the  ladies  admire  him." 

''  He's  very  well,  in  spite  of  his  weight,  now  he's  j'oung," 
said  Milly  ;  ''  but  he's  no  conversation." 

"  He's  best  on  horseback,"  Mr.  Bows  said  ;  on  which  Milly 
replied,  that  the  Baronet  had  ridden  third  in  the  sieeple-chase 
on  his  horse  Tareaways,  and  the  Major  began  to  comprehend 
that  the  3'oung  lad}'  herself  was  not  of  a  particular  genius,  and 
to  wonder  how  she  should  be  so  stupid  and  act  so  well. 

Costigan,  with  Irish  hospitality,  of  course  pressed  refresh- 
ment upon  his  guest:  and  the  Major,  who  was  no  more  hungr}^ 
than  you  are  after  a  Lord  Mayor's  dinner,  declared  that  he 
should  like  a  biscuit  and  a  glass  of  wine  above  all  things,  as  he 
felt  quite  faint  from  long  fasting  —  but  he  knew  that  to  receive 
small  kindnesses  flatters  the  donors  ver}'  much,  and  that  people 
must  needs  grow  well  disposed  towards  30U  as  they  give  you 
their  liospitaHty. 

"  Some  of  the  old  Madara,  Milly,  love,"  Costigan  said, 
winking  to  his  child — and  that  lady,  turning  to  her  father  a 
glance  of  intelligence,  went  out  of  the  room,  and  down  the  stair, 
where  she  softly*  summoned  her  J.ittle  emissary  Master  Tommy 


104  PENDENNIS. 

Creed :  and  giving  him  a  piece  of  money,  ordered  him  to  go 
buy  a  pint  of  Madara  wine  at  the  Grapes,  and  sixpenny' worth 
of  sorted  biscuits  at  the  baker's,  and  to  return  in  a  Wt}',  when 
he  might  have  two  biscuits  for  himself. 

Whilst  Tommy  Creed  was  gone  on  this  errand,  Miss  Costi- 
gon  sat  below  with  Mrs.  Creed,  telling  her  landlad}'  how  Mr. 
Arthur  Pendennis's  uncle,  the  Major,  was  above  stairs  ;  a  nice, 
soft-spoken  old  gentleman ;  that  butter  wouldn't  melt  in  his 
mouth  :  and  how  Sir  Derby  had  gone  out  of  the  room  in  a  rage 
of  jealousy,  and  thinking  what  must  be  done  to  pacifj-  both  of 
them. 

'"  She  keeps  the  keys  of  the  cellar,  Major,"  said  Mr.  Costi- 
gan,  as  the  girl  left  the  room. 

"  Upon  my  word  30U  ha\e  a  very  beautiful  butler,"  answered 
Pendennis,  gallantly,  "  and  1  don't  wonder  at  the  young  fellows 
ra\'ing  about  her.  When  we  were  of  their  age.  Captain  Costi- 
gan,  I  think  plainer  women  would  have  done  our  business." 

"Faith,  and  ye  ma}'  say  that,  sir  —  and  lucky  is  the  man 
who  gets  her.  Ask  me  friend  Bob  Bows  here  whether  Mies 
P'otheringay's  moind  is  not  even  shuparior  to  her  person,  and 
whether  she  does  not  possess  a  eultiveatecl  intellect,  a  refoined 
understanding,  and  an  emiable  disposition?" 

"Oh,  of  course,"  said  Mr.  Bows,  rather  dryl}'.  "Here 
comes  Hebe  blushing  from  the  cellar.  Don't  you  think  it  is 
time  to  go  to  rehearsal.  Miss  Hebe?  You  will  be  fined  if  you 
are  late"  —  and  he  gave  the30ung  lady  a  look,  which  intimated 
that  the}'  had  much  better  leave  the  room  and  the  two  elders 
together. 

At  this  order  Miss  Hebe  took  up  her  bonnet  and  shawl, 
looking  uncommonly  pretty,  good-humored,  and  smiling:  and 
Bows  gathered  up  his  roll  of  papei's,  and  hobbled  across  the 
room  for  his  hat  and  cane. 

"Must  3'ou  go?"  said  the  Major.  "Can't  you  give  us  a 
few  minutes  more.  Miss  Fotheringay?  Before  you  leave  us, 
permit  an  old  fellow  to  shake  you  by  the  hand,  and  believe  that 
I  am  proud  to  have  had  tlie  honor  of  making  3'our  acquaintance, 
and  am  most  sincerely  anxious  to  be  your  friend." 

Miss  Fotheringay  made  a  low  curts}'  at  the  conclusion  of  this 
gallant  speech,  and  the  Major  followed  her  retreating  steps  to 
the  door,  where  he  squeezed  her  hand  with  the  kindest  and  most 
paternal  pressure.  Bows  was  puzzled  with  this  exhibition  of 
cordiality:  "The  lad's  relatives  can't  be  reall}'  wanting  to 
marry  him  to  her,"  he  thought — and  so  they  departed. 

"Now  for  it,"  thought  Major  Pendennis;  and  as  for  Mr. 


PENDENNIS.  105 

Costigan  he  profited  instantaneoush'  by  his  daughter's  absence 
to  driixk  up  the  rest  of  the  wiue  ;  and  tossed  off  one  bumper 
after  another  of  the  Madeira  from  the  Grapes,  with  an  eager 
shaking  hand.  The  Major  came  up  to  the  table,  and  took  up 
his  glass  and  drained  it  with  a  jovial  smack.  If  it  had  been 
Lord  Ste^-ne's  particular,  and  not  public-house  Cape,  he  could 
not  have  appeared  to  relish  it  more. 

''Capital  Madeira,  Captain  Costigan,"  he  said.  "Where 
do  you  get  it?  I  drink  the  health  of  that  charming  creature  in 
a  bumper.  Faith,  Captain,  I  don't  wonder  that  the  men  are 
wild  about  her.  I  never  saw  such  eyes  in  my  life,  or  such  a 
grand  manner.  I  am  sure  she  is  as  intellectual  as  she  is  beau- 
tiful ;  and  I  have  no  doubt  she's  as  good  as  she  is  clever." 

"A  good  girl,  sir,  —  a  good  girl,  sir,"  said  the  delighted 
father  ;  '  •  and  I  pledge  a  toast  to  her  with  all  m}'  heart.  Shall 
I  send  to  the  —  to  the  cellar  for  another  pint?  It's  hand}'  b^-. 
No?  Well,  indeed  sir,  3'e  may  say  she  is  a  good  girl,  and  the 
pride  and  glorj'  of  her  father  —  honest  old  Jack  Costigan.  The 
man  who  gets  her  will  have  a  jew'l  to  a  wife,  sir ;  and  I  drink 
his  health,  sir,  and  ye  know  who  I  mean,  Major." 

"lam  not  surprised  at  3'oung  or  old  falling  in  love  with 
her,"  said  the  Major,  "  and  frankh'  must  tell  3-ou,  that  though 
I  was  very  angiy  with  my  poor  nephew  Arthur,  when  I  heard 
of  the  boy's  passion  —  now  I  have  seen  the  lady  I  can  pardon 
him  any  extent  of  it.  B}-  George,  I  should  like  to  enter  for  the 
race  m^-self,  if  I  weren't  an  old  fellow  and  a  poor  one." 

"And  no  better  man.  Major,  I'm  sure,"  cried  Jack  enrap- 
tured. "Your  friendship,  sir,  delights  me.  Your  admiration 
for  my  girl  brings  tears  to  me  e^es  —  tears,  sir  —  manlee  tears 
—  and  when  she  leaves  me  humble  home  for  your  own  more 
splendid  mansion,  I  hope  she'll  keep  a  place  for  her  poor  old 
father,  poor  old  Jack  Costigan."  —  The  Captain  suited  the  ac- 
tion to  the  word,  and  his  blood-shot  e^-es  were  suffused  with 
water,  as  he  addressed  the  Major. 

"Your  sentiments  do  you  honor,"  the  other  said,  "But, 
Captain  Costigan,  I  can't  help  smiling  at  one  thing  3-ou  have 
just  said." 

"  And  what's  that,  sir?  "  asked  Jack,  who  was  at  a  too  heroic 
and  sentimental  pitch  to  descend  from  it. 

"You  were  speaking  about  our  splendid  mansion  —  my  sis- 
ter's house,  I  mean." 

"  I  mane  the  park  and  mansion  of  Arthur  Pendennis,  Es- 
quire, of  Fairoaks  Park,  whom  I  hope  to  see  a  Mimber  of  Par- 
liament for  his  native  town  of  Clavering,  when  he  is  of  ege  to 


i06  PENDENNIS. 

take  that  responsible  stetiou,"  cried  the  Captain  with  much 
dignity. 

The  Major  smiled.  "  Fau'oaks  Park,  m}'  dear  sii' ! "  he  said. 
"Do  you  know  our  history?  We  are  of  excessively  ancient 
family  certainly,  but  I  began  life  with  scarce  enough  mone}'  to 
purchase  ni}-  commission,  and  my  eldest  brother  was  a  country 
apothecary  :  who  made  every  shilling  he  died  possessed  of  out 
of  his  pestle  and  mortar." 

"  I  have  consented  to  waive  that  objection,  sir,"  said  Costi- 
gan  majestically,  "  in  consideration  of  the  known  respectability 
of  your  family." 

"  Curse  your  impudence,"  thought  the  Major;  but  he  only 
smiled  and  bowed. 

"The  Costigans,  too,  have  met  with  misfortunes;  and  our 
house  of  Castle  Costigan  is  by  no  manes  what  it  was.  I  have 
known  verj'  honest  men  apothecaries,  sir,  and  there's  some  in 
Dublin  that  has  had  the  honor  of  dining  at  the  Lord  Leftenant's 
teeble." 

"  You  are  verj'  kind  to  give  us  the  benefit  of  3'our  charity," 
the  Major  continued :  "  but  permit  me  to  sa}'  that  is  not  the 
question.  You  spoke  just  now  of  my  little  nephew  as  heir  of 
Fairoaks  Park,  and  I  don't  know  what  besides." 

"Funded  property,  I've  no  doubt,  Meejor,  and  something 
handsome  eventually  from  3'ourself." 

' '  My  good  sir,  I  tell  you  the  boy  is  the  son  of  a  country 
apothecary,"  cried  out  Major  Pendennis ;  "and  that  when  he 
comes  of  age  he  won't  have  a  shilling." 

"Pooh,  Major,  you're  laughing  at  me,"  said  Mr.  Costigan, 
"  me  young  friend,  I  make  no  doubt,  is  heir  to  two  thousand 
pounds  a-year.'' 

"  Two  thousand  fiddlesticks  !  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear 
sir ;  but  has  the  boy  been  humbugging  3'ou  ?  —  it  is  not  his 
nabit.  Upon  my  word  and  honor,  as  a  gentleman  and  an 
executor  to  my  brother's  will  too,  he  left  little  more  than  five 
hundred  a-year  behind  him." 

"  And  with  aconom}^  a  handsome  sum  of  mone}'  too,  sii-," 
the  Captain  answered.  "Faith,  I've  known  a  man  drink  his 
clar't,  and  drive  his  coach-and-four  on  five  hundred  a-year  and 
sti-ict  aconomy,  in  Ireland,  sh-.  We'll  manage  on  it,  sir  —  trust 
Jack  Costigan  for  that." 

"  My  dear  Captain  Costigan  —  I  give  3'ou  m}'  word  that  my 
brother  did  not  leave  a  shiUing  to  his  son  Arthur." 

"  Are  ye  joking  with  me,  Meejor  Pendennis?"  cried  Jack 
Costigan.  "  Are  ye  thrifling  with  the  feelings  of  a  father  and 
a  gentleman  ?  " 


PENDENNIS.  107 

"  I  am  telling  you  the  honest  truth,"  said  Major  Pcndennis. 
"  Every  shilling  my  brother  had,  he  left  to  his  widow :  with  a 
partial  reversion,  it  is  true,  to  the  boy.  But  she  is  a  3'oung 
woman,  and  may  many  if  he  offends  her  —  or  she  may  outlive 
him,  for  she  comes  of  an  uncommonly  long-lived  family.  And 
I  ask  you  as  a  gentleman  and  a  man  of  the  world,  what  allow- 
ance can  my  sister,  Mrs.  Pcndennis,  make  to  her  son  out  of  five 
hundred  a-year,  which  is  all  her  fortune  —  that  shall  enable  him 
to  maintain  himself  and  your  daughter  in  the  rank  befitting  such 
an  accomplished  young  lady  ? " 

"Am  I  to  understand,  sir,  that  the  .young  gentleman,  your 
nephew,  and  whom  I  have  fosthered  and  cherished  as  the  son 
of  me  bosom,  is  an  imposther  who  has  been  thrifling  with  the 
aflfections  of  me  beloved  child?"  exclaimed  the  General,  with 
an  outbreak  of  wrath.  "  Have  a  care,  sir,  how  30U  thrifle  with 
the  honor  of  John  Costigan.  If  I  thought  any  mortal  man 
meant  to  do  so,  be  heavens,  I'd  have  his  blood,  sir  —  were  he 
old  or  young." 

"  Mr.  Costigan  !  "  cried  out  the  Major. 

"  Mr.  Costigan  can  protect  his  own  and  his  daughter's 
honor,  and  will,  sir,"  said  the  other.  "Look  at  that  chest  of 
dthrawers,  it  contains  heaps  of  letthers  that  that  viper  has 
addressed  to  that  innocent  child.  There's  promises  there,  sir, 
enough  to  fill  a  band-box  with  ;  and  when  I  have  dragged  the 
scoundthrel  before  the  Courts  of  Law,  and  shown  up  his  perjury 
and  his  dishonor,  I  have  another  remedy-  in  yondther  mahogany 
case,  sir.  which  shall  set  me  right,  sir,  with  any  individual  —  ye 
mark  me  words.  Major  Pcndennis  —  with  an}- individual  who 
has  counselled  jour  nephew  to  insult  a  soldier  and  a  gentleman. 
What?  Me  daughter  to  be  jilted,  and  me  gray  hairs  dishonored 
by  an  apothecary's  son  !  By  the  laws  of  Heaven,  sir,  I  should 
like  to  see  the  man  that  shall  do  it." 

"  I  am  to  understand  then  that  you  threaten  in  the  first 
place  to  publish  the  letters  of  a  boy  of  eighteen  to  a  woman  of 
eight-and-twenty  :  and  afterwards  to  do  me  the  honor  of  calling 
me  out,"  the  JNLajor  said,  still  with  perfect  coolness. 

"You  have  described  my  intentions  with  perfect  accurac}', 
Mecjor  Pcndennis,"  answered  the  Captain,  as  he  pulled  his 
ragged  whiskers  over  his  chin. 

"  Well,  well ;  these  shall  be  the  subjects  of  future  arrange- 
ments, but  before  we  come  to  powder  and  ball,  my  good  sir, — 
do  have  the  kindness  to  think  with  yourself  in  what  earthl}' 
way  I  have  injured  you?  I  have  told  you  that  my  nephew  is 
dependent  upon  his  mother,  who  has  scarcely  more  than  five 
hundred  a-ycar." 


108  PENDENNIS. 

"  I  htive  my  own  opinion  of  the  correctness  of  that  asser. 
tion,"  said  the  Captain. 

"  Will  you  go  to  my  sister's  lawyers,  Messrs.  Tatham  here, 
and  satisfy  yourself?  " 

"  I  decline  to  meet  those  gentlemen,"  said  the  Captain. 
with  rather  a  disturbed  air.  "  If  it  be  as  you  say,  1  have  been 
athrociously  deceived  b^^  some  one,  and  on  that  person  I'll  be 
revenged." 

"  Is  it  my  nephew?  "  cried  the  Major,  starting  up  and  putting 
on  his  hat.  "  Did  he  ever  tell  you  that  his  property  was  two 
tliousand  a-year?  If  he  did,  I'm  mistaken  in  the  boy.  To  tell 
lies  has  not  been  a  habit  in  our  family,  Mr.  Costigan,  and  I 
don't  think  my  brother's  son  has  learned  it  as  yet.  Try  and 
consider  whether  you  have  not  deceived  j'ourself ;  or  adopted 
extravagant  reports  from  hearsay.  As  for  me,  sir,  you  are  at 
liberty  to  understand  that  I  am  not  afraid  of  all  the  Costigans 
in  Ireland,  and  know  quite  well  how  to  defend  myself  against 
any  threats  from  any  quarter.  I  come  here  as  the  boy's  guar- 
dian to  {)rote.st  against  a  marriage,  most  absurd  and  unequal, 
that  cannot  but  bring  povert}'  and  misery  with  it:  and  in  pre 
venting  it  I  conceive  I  am  quite  as  much  your  daughter's 
friend  (who  I  have  no  doubt  is  an  honorable  young  lady), 
as  the  friend  of  my  own  famil}' :  and  prevent  the  marriage  I 
will,  sir,  b}'  every  means  in  m}'  power.  There,  I  have  said  m}"^ 
saj',  sir." 

"  But  I  have  not  said  mine,  Major  Pendennis  —  and  ye  shall 
hear  more  from  me,"  Mr.  Costigan  said,  with  a  look  of  tremen- 
dous severity. 

"  'Sdeath,  sir,  what  do  you  mean?"  the  Major  asked,  turn- 
ing round  on  the  threshold  of  the  door,  and  looking  the  intrepid 
Costigan  in  the  face. 

"Ye  said,  in  the  course  of  conversation,  that  ye  were  at 
the  George  Hotel,  I  think,"  Mr.  Costigan  said  in  a  statelj' 
manner.  "A  friend  shall  wait  upon  ye  there  before  ye  leave 
town,  sir." 

"  Let  him  make  haste,  Mr.  Costigan,"  cried  out  the  Major, 
almost  beside  himself  with  rage.  "  I  wish  you  a  good  morning, 
sir."  And  Captain  Costigan  bowed  a  magnificent  bow  of  de- 
fiance to  Major  Pendennis  over  the  landing-place  as  the  latter 
retreated  down  the  stairs. 


PEXDENNIS..  iU9 

CHAPTER  XII. 

IN   WHICH   A   SHOOTING   MATCH    IS    PROPOSED. 

Early  mention  has  been  made  in  this  history  of  Mr.  Gar- 
betts,  Principal  Tragedian,  a  promising  and  athletic  young 
actor,  of  jovial  habits  and  irregular  inclinations,  between 
whom  and  Mr.  Costigan  there  was  a  considerable  intimacy. 
The^'  were  the  chief  ornaments  of  the  convivial  club  held  at 
the  Magpie  Hotel ;  the}'  helped  each  other  in  various  bill 
transactions  in  which  the}'  had  been  engaged,  with  the  mu- 
tual loan  of  each  other's  valuable  signatures.  They  were 
friends,  in  tine  ;  and  Mr.  Garbetts  was  called  in  by  Captain 
Costigan  immediately  after  INlajor  Pendennis  had  quitted  the 
house,  as  a  friend  proper  to  be  consulted  at  the  actual  junc- 
ture. He  was  a  large  man,  with  a  loud  voice  and  fierce  aspect, 
who  had  the  finest  legs  of  the  whole  company,  and  could  break 
a  poker  in  mere  sport  across  his  stalwart  arm. 

••  Run,  Tommy,"  said  Mr.  Costigan  to  the  little  messenger, 
"  and  fetch  Mr.  Garbetts  from  his  lodgings  over  the  tripe  shop, 
ye  know,  and  tell  'em  to  send  two  glasses  of  whiskey-and- water, 
hot,  from  the  Grapes."  So  Tommy  went  away  ;  and  presently 
]Mr.  Garbetts  and  the  whiskey  came. 

Captain  Costigan  did  not  disclose  to  him  the  whole  of  the 
previous  events,  of  which  the  reader  is  in  possession  ;  but, 
with  the  aid  of  the  spirits-and-water,  he  composed  a  letter  of 
a  threatening  nature  to  Major  Pendennis's  address,  in  which 
he  called  upon  that  gentleman  to  oflfer  no  hindrance  to  the 
marriage  projected  between  Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis  and  his 
daughter.  Miss  Fotheringay,  and  to  fix  an  earl}-  day  for  its 
celebratioK :  or,  in  any  other  case,  to  give  him  the  satisfaction 
which  was  usual  between  gentlemen  of  honor.  And  should 
Major  Pendennis  be  disinclined  to  this  alternative,  the  Captain 
hinted,  that  he  would  force  him  to  accept  it  by  the  use  of  a 
horse-whip,  which  he  should  employ  upon  the  Major's  person. 
The  precise  terms  of  this  letter  we  cannot  give,  for  reasons 
which  shall  be  specified  presently ;  but  it  was,  no  doubt, 
couched  in  the  Captain's  finest  style,  and  sealed  elaborate!}' 
with  the  great  silver  seal  of  the  Costigans  —  the  only  bit  of 
the  family  plate  which  tlie  Captain  possessed. 

Garbetts  was  despatched,  then,  with  this  message  and  letter* 


110  PENDENNIS. 

and  bidding  Heaven  bless  'um,  the  General  squeezed  his  am- 
bassador's hand,  and  saw  him  depart.  Then  he  took  down  his 
venerable  and  murderous  duelling-pistols,  with  flint  locks,  that 
had  done  the  business  of  man}^  a  pretty  fellow  in  Dublin :  and 
having  examined  these,  and  seen  that  they  were  in  a  satisfae- 
tor}'  condition,  he  brought  from  the  drawer  all  Pen's  letters 
and  poems  which  he  kept  there,  and  which  he  alwaj's  read  be- 
fore he  permitted  his  Emily  to  enjo}'  their  perusal. 

In  a  score  of  minutes  Garbetts  came  back  with  an  anxious 
and  crest-fallen  countenance. 

"  Ye've  seen  'um?  "  the  Captain  said. 

"  Why,  3es,"  said  Garbetts. 

"And  when  is  it  for?"  asked  Costigan,  trying  the  lock  of 
one  of  the  ancient  pistols,  and  bringing  it  to  a  level  with  his  oi 
—  as  he  called  that  blood-shot  orb. 

' '  AVhen  is  what  for  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Garbetts. 

"  The  meeting,  m}'  dear  fellow?" 

"You  don't  mean  to  sa}'  30U  mean  mortal  combat,  Cap- 
tain?" Garbetts  said,  aghast. 

"What  the  devil  else  do  I  mean,  Garbetts? — I  want  to 
shoot  that  man  that  has  trajuiced  me  honor,  or  meself  dthrop 
a  victim  on  the  sod." 

"  D —  if  I  carry  challenges,"  Mr.  Garbetts  replied.  "  I'm 
a  family  man,  Captain,  and  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  pis- 
tols —  take  back  3-our  letter ;  "  and,  to  the  surprise  and  indig- 
nation of  Captain  Costigan,  his  emissar3'  flung  the  letter  down, 
with  its  gi'eat  sprawling  superscription  and  blotched  seal. 

"  Ye  don't  mean  to  sa}'  ye  saw  'um  and  didn't  give  'um  the 
letter?  "  cried  out  the  Captain,  in  a  fur}'. 

"I  saw  him,  but  I  could  not  have  speech  with  him,  Cap- 
tain," said  Mr.  Garbetts. 

' '  And  why  the  devil  not  ?  "  asked  the  other. 

"  There  was  one  there  I  cared  not  to  meet,  nor  would  you," 
the  tragedian  answered  in  a  sepulchral  voice.  "  The  minion 
Tatham  was  there,  Captain." 

"The  cowardly  scoundthrel !  "  roared  Costigan.  "He's 
frightened,  and  alreadj-  going  to  swear  the  peace  against  me." 

"  I'll  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  fighting,  mark  that,"  the 
tragedian  doggedly  said,  "  and  I  wish  I'd  not  seen  Tatham 
neither,  nor  that  bit  of —  " 

"  Hold  3'our  tongue  !  Bob  Acres.  It's  m}-  belief  3'e're  no 
better  than  a  coward,"  said  Captain  Costigan,  quoting  Sir 
Lucius  O'Trigger,  which  character  he  had  performed  with 
credit,    both    otf   and   on    the   stage,    and    after    some    more 


PisNDENNIS.  Ill 

l)arley  between  the  couple  the}'  separated  in  not  ver^-  good 
humor. 

Their  colloquy  has  been  here  condensed,  as  the  reader 
knows  the  main  point  upon  which  it  turned.  But  the  latter 
will  now  see  how  it  is  impossible  to  give  a  correct  ac-count  of 
the  letter  which  the  Captain  wrote  to  Major  Pendennis,  as  it 
was  never  opened  at  all  bj'  that  gentleman. 

AVhen  Miss  Costigan  came  home  from  rehearsal,  which  she 
did  in  the  company  of  the  faithful  Mr.  Bows,  she  found  her 
father  pacing  up  and  down  their  apartment  in  a  great  state  of 
agitation,  and  in  the  midst  of  a  powerful  odor  of  spirits-and- 
water,  which,  as  it  appeared,  had  not  succeeded  in  pacifying 
his  disordered  mind.  The  Pendennis  papers  were  on  the  table 
surrounding  the  empty  goblets  and  now  useless  teaspoon,  which 
had  ser^'ed  to  hold  and  mix  the  Captain's  liquor  and  his  friend's. 
As  Emily  entered  he  seized  her  in  his  arms,  and  cried  out, 
"Prepare  yourself,  me  child,  me  blessed  child,"  in  a  voice  of 
agon}',  and  with  eyes  brimful  of  tears. 

"- Ye're  tipsy  again,  Papa,"  Miss  Fotheringay  said,  pushing 
back  her  sire.  "Ye  promised  me  ye  wouldn't  take  spirits 
before  dinner." 

"It's  to  forget  me  sorrows,  me  poor  girl,  that  I've  taken 
just  a  drop,"  cried  the  bereaved  father — "it's  to  drown  me 
care  that  I  drain  the  bowl." 

"Your  care  takes  a  deal  of  drowning,  Captain  dear," 
said  Bows,  mimicking  his  friend's  accent;  "what  has  hap- 
pened? Has  that  soft-spoken  gentleman  in  the  wig  been  vex- 
ing you?" 

"The  oil}'  miscreant!  I'll  have  his  blood!"  roared  Cos. 
Miss  Mill}',  it  must  be  premised,  had  fled  to  her  room  out  of 
his  embrace,  and  was  taking  off  her  bonnet  and  shawl  there. 

"I  thought  he  meant  mischief.  He  was  so  uncommon 
civil,"  the  other  said.     "What  has  he  come  to  say?" 

"O  Bows!  He  has  overwhellum'd  me,"  the  Captain  said. 
"  There's  a  hellish  conspiracy  on  foot  against  me  poor  girl; 
and  it's  me  opinion  that  both  them  Pendennises,  nephew  and 
uncle,  is  two  infernal  thrators  and  scoundthrels,  who  should  be 
eonshumed  from  off  the  face  of  the  earth." 

"What  is  it?  What  has  happened?"  said  Mr.  Bows, 
growing  rather  excited. 

Costigan  then  told  him  the  Major's  statement  that  the  young 
Pendennis  had  not  two  thousand,  nor  two  hundred  pounds 
a-year ;  and  expressed  his  fury  that  he  should  liave  permitted 
such  ra  impostor  to  coax  and  wheedle  his  innocent  girl,  and 


112  PENDENNIS. 

that  he  should  have  nourished  such  a  viper  in  his  own  personal 
bosom.  '•  I  have  shaken  the  reptile  from  me,  however,"  said 
Costigan ;  "  and  as  for  his  uncle,  I'll  have  such  a  revenge  on 
that  old  man,  as  shall  make  'um  rue  the  day  he  ever  insulted 
a  Costigan." 

"  What  do  3'ou  mean,  General?"  said  Bows. 

"I  mean  to  have  his  life.  Bows  —  his  \'illanous,  skulking 
]ife,  my  boy  ;  "  and  he  rapped  upon  the  battered  old  pistol-case 
in  an  ominous  and  savage  manner.  Bows  had  often  heard  him 
appeal  to  that  box  of  death,  with  which  he  proposed  to  sacri- 
fice his  enemies  ;  but  the  Captain  did  not  tell  him  that  he  had 
actually  written  and  sent  a  challenge  to  Major  Pendennis,  and 
Mr.  Bows  therefore  rather  disregarded  the  pistols  in  the  pres- 
ent instance. 

At  this  juncture  Miss  Fotheringay  returned  to  the  common 
sitting-room  from  her  private  apartment,  looking  perfectly 
healthy,  happy,  and  unconcerned,  a  striking  and  wholesome 
contrast  to  her  father,  who  was  in  a  delirious  tremor  of  grief, 
anger,  and  other  agitation.  She  brought  in  a  pair  of  ex-white 
satin  shoes  with  her,  which  she  proposed  to  rub  as  clean  as 
might  be  with  bread-crumb  ;  intending  to  go  mad  with  them 
upon  next  Tuesday  evening  in  Ophelia,  in  which  character  she 
was  to  reappear  on  that  night. 

She  looked  at  the  papers  on  the  table  ;  stopped  as  if  she  was 
going  to  ask  a  question,  but  thought  better  of  it,  and  going  to 
the  cupboard,  selected  an  eligible  piece  of  bread  wherewith  she 
might  operate  on  the  satin  slippers  :  and  afterwards  coming 
back  to  the  table,  seated  herself  there  commodiously  with  the 
shoes,  and  then  asked  her  father,  in  her  honest  Irish  brogue, 
"What  have  ye  got  them  letthers,  and  pothr}-,  and  stuff,  of 
Master  Arthur's  out  for.  Pa?  Sure  ye  don't  want  to  be  reading 
over  that  nonsense." 

"  O  Emilee  !  "  cried  the  Captain,  "  that  bo}'  whom  I  loved 
as  the  boy  of  mee  bosom  is  only  a  scoundthrel,  and  a  deceiver, 
mee  poor  girl :  "  and  he  looked  in  the  most  tragical  wa}'  at  Mr. 
Bows,  opposite,  who,  in  his  turn,  gazed  somewhat  anxiously'  at 
Miss  Costigan. 

"  He  !  pooh  !  Sure  the  poor  lad's  as  simple  as  a  schoolboy," 
she  said.     "  All  them  children  write  verses  and  nonsense." 

"  He's  been  acting  the  part  of  a  viper  to  this  fireside,  and  a 
traitor  in  this  familee,"  cried  the  Captain.  "  I  tell  3^e  he's  no 
better  than  an  impostor." 

"  What  has  the  poor  fellow  done,  Papa?"  asked  Emily. 

"•  Done?     He  has  deceived  us  in  the  most  athrocious  man- 


PENDENNIS.  113 

ner,"  Miss  Emil3''s  papa  said.  "  He  has  thrifled  with  your 
aflfections,  and  outraged  m}'  own  fine  feelings.  He  has  repre- 
sented liimself  as  a  man  of  property,  and  it  turioins  out  that 
he  is  no  betther  than  a  beggar.  Haven't  I  often  told  ye  he  had 
two  thousand  a-year?  He's  a  pauper,  I  tell  3e,  Miss  Costigan  ; 
a  depindent  upon  the  bountee  of  his  mother ;  a  good  woman, 
who  may  many  again,  who's  likely  to  live  for  ever,  and  who 
has  but  five  hundred  a-j^ear.  How  dar  he  ask  3-e  to  marr}- 
into  a  famih^  which  has  not  the  means  of  providing  for  ye? 
Ye've  been  grosslj'  deceived  and  put  upon,  Milly,  and  it's 
m^'  belief  his  old  ruffian  of  an  uncle  in  a  wig  is  in  the  plot 
against  us." 

'  •  That  soft  old  gentleman  ?  AVhat  has  he  been  doing,  Papa  ?  " 
continued  Emil^',  still  imperturbable. 

Costigan  informed  Mill}-  that  when  she  was  gone,  Major 
Pendennis  told  him  in  his  double-faced  Pall  Mall  polite  manner, 
that  3'oung  Arthur  had  no  fortune  at  all,  that  the  Major  had 
asked  him  (Costigan)  to  go  to  the  lawyers  (""  wherein  he  knew 
the  scoundthrels  have  a  bill  of  mine,  and  I  can't  meet  them," 
the  Captain  parentheticall}- remarked),  and  see  the  lad's  father's 
will :  and  finaU}',  that  an  infernal  swindle  had  been  practised 
upon  him  b}'  the  pair,  and  that  he  was  resolved  either  on  a 
marriage,  or  on  the  blood  of  both  of  them. 

Miliy  looked  very  grave  and  thoughtful,  rubbing  the  white 
satin  shoe.  "  Sure  if  he's  no  mone\-,  there's  no  use  marrying 
him.  Papa,"  she  said,  sententioush'. 

"  Why  did  the  villain  say  he  was  a  man  of  prawpertee?" 
asked  Costigan. 

"The  poor  fellow  alwaj's  said  he  was  poor,"  answered  the 
girl.  "  'Twas  you  who  would  have  it  he  was  rich.  Papa  —  and 
made  me  agree  to  take  him," 

"  He  should  have  been  explicit  and  told  us  his  income, 
Mill}-,"  answered  the  father.  "A  young  fellow  who  rides  a 
blood  mare,  and  makes  presents  of  shawls  and  bracelets,  is  an 
impostor  if  he  has  no  money ;  —  and  as  for  his  uncle,  bedad 
I'll  pull  off  his  wig  whenever  I  see  'um.  Bows,  here,  shall  take 
a  message  to  him  and  tell  him  so.  Either  it's  a  marriage,  or 
he  meets  me  in  the  field  like  a  man,  or  I  tweak  'um  on  the  nose 
in  front  of  his  hotel  or  in  the  gravel  walks  of  P'airoaks  Park 
before  all  the  county,  bedad." 

"  Bedad,  you  may  send  somebody  else  with  the  message," 
said  Bows,  laughing.  "I'm  a  fiddler,  not  a  fighting  man, 
Captain." 

"  Pooh,  you've  no  spirit,  sir,"  roared  the  General.     "  I'll  be 

8 


114  PENDENNIS. 

ray  own  second,  if  no  one  will  stand  by  and  see  me  injured 
And  I'll  take  my  case  of  pistols  and  shoot  'um  in  the  Coffee 
Room  of  the  George." 

"And  so  poor  Arthur  has  no  money?"  sighed  out  Miss 
Costigan,  rather  plaintively.  "  Poor  lad,  he  was  a  good  lad 
too  :  wild  and  talking  nonsense,  with  his  verses  and  pothr}'  and 
that,  but  a  brave,  generous  bo}',  and  indeed  I  liked  him  —  and 
he  liked  me  too,"  she  added,  rather  softly,  and  rubbing  away 
at  the  shoe. 

'•  Why  don't  you  marry  him  if  you  like  him  so?  "  Mr.  Bows 
said,  ratlier  savagel}-.  "  He  is  not  more  tha.^  ten  years  younger 
than  j'ou  are.  His  mother  may  relent,  and  you  might  go  and  live 
and  have  enough  at  Fairoaks  Park.  Wh}'  not  go  and  be  a  lad}*  ? 
I  could  go  on  with  the  fiddle,  and  the  General  live  on  his  half- 
pay.     Why  don't  you  marr^'  him?     You  know  he  likes  you." 

"There's  others  that  likes  me  as  well,  Bows,  that  has  na 
money  and  that's  old  enough,"  Miss  Mill^'  said,  sententiousl}'. 

"Yes,  d —  it,"  said  Bows,  with  a  bitter  curse — "that 
are  old  enough  and  poor  enough  and  fools  enough  for  any- 
thing." 

"  There's  old  fools,  and  young  fools  too.  You've  often  said 
so,  you  silly  man,"  the  imperious  beauty  said,  with  a  conscious 
glance  at  the  old  gentleman.  "  If  Pendennis  has  not  enough 
money  to  live  upon,  it's  folly  to  talk  about  marrying  him :  and 
that's  the  long  and  short  of  it." 

"And  the  boy?"  said  Mr.  Bows.  "  By  Jove  !  you  thro^v 
a  man  away  like  an  old  glove.  Miss  Costigan." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  Bows/'  said  Miss  Fotherin- 
gay,  placidly,  rubbing  the  second  shoe.  "  If  he  had  had  halt 
of  the  two  thousand  a-year  that  Papa  gave  him.  or  the  half  oi 
that,  I  would  marry  him.  But  Avhat  is  the  good  of  taking  on 
with  a  beggar?  We're  poor  enough  already.  There's  no  use 
in  my  going  to  live  with  an  old  lady  that's  testy  and  cross, 
maybe,  and  would  grudge  me  every' morsel  of  meat.  (Sure, 
it's  near  dinner  time,  and  Suky  not  laid  the  cloth  yet),  and 
then,"  added  Miss  Costigan,  quite  simply,  "  suppose  there  was 
a  family  ?  —  why.  Papa,  we  shouldn't  be  as  well  off  as  we  are 
now." 

"'Deed  then,  you  would  not,  Milly  dear,"  answered  the 
father. 

"  And  there's  an  end  to  all  the  fine  talk  about  Mrs.  Arthur 
Pendennis  of  Fairoaks  Park  — the  member  of  Parliament's 
lady,"  said  Milly,  with  a  laugh.  "  Pretty  carriages  and  horses 
we  should  have  to  ride  !  —  that  you  were  always  talking  about? 


PENDENNIS.  115 

Papa.  But  it's  alwaj's  the  same.  If  a  inau  looked  at  me,  you 
faueied  he  was  going  to  many  ine  ;  and  if  he  had  a  good  coat, 
you  fancied  he  was  as  rich  as  Crazes." 

"  As  CrcEsus,"  said  Mr.  Bows. 

"Well,  call  'um  what  ye  like.  But  it's  a  fact  now  that  Papa 
has  married  me  these  eight  years  a  score  of  times.  Wasn't  I 
to  be  m}'  Lady  Poldood}'  of  O^'stherstown  Castle  ?  Then  there 
was  the  Navy  Captain  at  Portsmouth,  and  the  old  surgeon  at 
Norwich,  and  the  Methodist  preacher  here  last  year,  and  who 
knows  how  many  more  ?  Well,  I  bet  a  penny,  with  all  yonr 
scheming,  I  shall  die  Milly  Costigan  at  last.  So  poor  little 
Arthur  has  no  money  ?  Stop  and  take  dinner,  Bows  :  we've  a 
beautiful  beef-steak  pudding." 

"  I  wonder  whether  she  is  on  with  Sir  Derby  Oaks,"  thought 
Bows,  whose  eyes  and  thoughts  were  always  watching  her. 
"The  dodges  of  women  beat  all  comprehension;  and  I  am 
sure  she  wouldn't  let  the  lad  otf  so  easih',  if  she  had  not  some 
other  scheme  on  hand." 

It  will  have  been  perceived  that  Miss  J'otheringay,  though 
s:lent  in  general,  and  by  no  means  brilliant  as  a  conversationist 
where  poetry,  literature,  or  the  fine  arts  were  concerned,  could 
talk  freel}'  and  with  good  sense,  too,  in  her  own  famil}'  circle. 
She  cannot  justl}'  be  called  a  romantic  person  :  nor  were  her 
literary  acquirements  great :  she  never  opened  a  Shakspeare 
from  the  day  she  left  the  stage,  nor,  indeed,  understood  it  dur- 
ing all  the  time  she  adorned  the  boards  :  but  about  a  pudding, 
a  piece  of  needle-work,  or  her  own  domestic  affairs,  she  was  as 
good  a  judge  as  could  be  found  ;  and  not  being  misled  by  a 
strong  imagination  or  a  passionate  temper,  was  better  enabled 
tD  keep  her  judgment  cool.  When,  over  their  dinner,  Costigan 
tried  to  convince  himself  and  the  company,  that  the  IVIajor's 
statement  regarding  Pen's  finances  was  unworthy  of  credit,  and 
a  mere  ruse  upon  the  old  hypocrite's  part  so  as  to  induce  them, 
on  their  side,  to  break  off  the  match,  Miss  Milh'  would  not, 
for  a  moment,  admit  the  possibility  of  deceit  on  the  side  of  the 
adversary :  and  pointed  out  clearly  that  it  was  her  father  who 
had  deceived  himself,  and  not  poor  little  Pen,  who  had  tried  to 
take  them  in.  As  for  that  poor  lad,  she  said  she  pitied  him 
with  all  her  heart.  And  she  ate  an  exceedingly  good  dinner ,' 
to  the  admiration  of  Mr.  Bows,  who  had  a  remarlcable  regard 
and  contempt  for  this  woman,  during  and  after  which  repast, 
the  party  devised  upon  the  l)est  means  of  bringing  this  love- 
matter  to  a  close.  As  for  Costigan,  his  idea  of  tweaking  the 
Major's  nose  vanished  with  his  suppl}-  of  after-dinner  whiskey- 


116  PENDENNIS. 

.ind-water ;  and  he  was  submissive  to  his  daughter,  and  roadv 
for  any  plan  on  which  she  might  decide,  in  order  to  meet  the 
crisis  which  she  saw  was  at  hand. 

The  Captain,  who,  as  long  as  he  had  a  notion  that  he  was 
wronged,  was  eager  to  face  and  demolish  both  Pen  and  his 
uncle,  perhaps  shrank  from  the  idea  of  meeting  the  former, 
and  asked  "  what  the  juice  they  were  to  say  to  the  lad  if  he 
remained  steady  to  his  engagement,  and  they  broke  from 
theirs  !  "  "  What?  don't  you  know  how  to  throw  a  man  over?  " 
said  Bows  ;   "  ask  a  woman  to  tell  you  ;  "  and  Miss  Fotherin- 

gay  showed  how  this  feat  was  to  be  done  simply  enough 

nothing  was  more  easy.  "Papa  writes  to  Arthur  to  know 
what  settlements  he  proposes  to  make  in  event  of  a  marriao'e  ; 
and  asks  what  his  means  are.  Arthur  writes  back  and  says 
what  he's  got,  and  you'll  find  it's  as  the  Major  says,  I'll  go  bail. 
Then  Papa  writes,  and  says  it's  not  enough,  and 'the  match  had 
best  be  at  an  end." 

"  And,  of  course,  you  enclose  a  parting  line,  in  which  you 
say  you  will  always  regard  him  as  a  brother ; "  said  Mr.  Bows, 
e^'ing  her  in  his  scornful  way. 

"Of  course,  and  so  I  shall,"  answered  Miss  Fotheringay. 
"  He's  a  most  worthy  young  man,  I'm  sure.  I'll  thank  ye  hand 
me  the  salt.     Them  filberts  is  beautiful." 

"And  there  wiU  be  no  noses  pulled,  Cos,  my  boy?  I'm 
sorry  you're  balked,"  said  Mr.  Bows. 

"  'Dad,  I  suppose  not,"  said  Cos,  rubbing  his  own.  — 
"  What'U  ye  do  about  them  letters,  and  verses,  and  pomes. 
Hilly,  darling?  —  Ye  must  send  'em  back." 

"  AYigsby  would  give  a  hundred  pound  for  'em,"  Bows  said, 
with  a  sneer. 

"'Deed,  then,  he  would,"  said  Captain  Costigan,  who  was 
easilj'  led. 

"  Papa  !  "  said  Miss  Milly.  —  "  Ye  wouldn't  be  for  not  send- 
ing the  poor  boy  his  letters  back  ?  Them  letters  and  pomes  is 
mine.  They  were  very  long,  and  full  of  all  sorts  of  nonsense, 
and  Latin,  and  things  I  couldn't  understand  the  half  of ;  indeed 
I've  not  read  'em  all ;  but  we'll  send  'em  back  to  him  when  the 
proper  time  comes."  And  going  to  a  drawer.  Miss  Fotheringay 
took  out  from  it  a  number  of  the  County  Chronicle  and  Chat- 
teris Champion,  in  M^hich  Pen  had  written  a  copy  of  flaming 
verses  celebrating  her  appearance  in  the  character "^ of  Imogen, 
and  putting  by  the  leaf  upon  which  the  poem  appeared  (for, 
like  ladies  of  her  profession,  she  kept  the  favorable  printed 
notices  of  her  performances^,  she  wrapped  up  Pen's  letters, 


PENDENNIS.  117 

poems,  passions,  and  fancies,  and  tied  them  with  a  piece  of 
string  neatly,  as  she  would  a  parcel  of  sugar. 

Nor  was  she  in  the  least  moved  while  performing  this  act. 
What  hours  the  bo}'  had  passed  over  those  papers  !  What  love 
and  longing  :  what  generous  faith  and  maul}'  devotion  —  what 
watchful  nights  and  lonely  fevers  might  the}^  tell  of !  She  tied 
them  up  like  so  much  grocery,  and  sat  down  and  made  tea 
afterwards  with  a  perfectly  placid  and  contented  heart :  while 
Pen  was  yearning  after  her  ten  miles  off:  and  hugging  her 
image  to  his  soul. 


CHAPTER  XIIL 

A    CRISIS. 

Major  Pendenxis  came  away  from  his  interview  with  Captain 
Costigan  in  a  state  of  such  concentrated  fury  as  rendered  hun 
terrible  to  approach.  '^  The  impudent  bog-trotting  scamp,"  he 
thought,  "  dare  to  threaten  me  !  Dare  to  talk  of  permitting  his 
damned  Costigans  to  marry  with  the  Pendennises  !  Send  me 
a  challenge  !  If  the  fellow  can  get  an3'thing  in  the  shape  of  a 
gentleman  to  carry  it,  I  have  the  greatest  mind  in  life  not  to 
balk  him.  — Psha  !  what  would  people  sav  if  I  were  to  go  out 
with  a  tipsy  mountebank,  about  a  row  with  an  actress  in  a 
barn !  "  So  when  the  Major  saw  Dr.  Portman,  who  asked 
anxiously  regarding  the  issue  of  his  battle  with  the  dragon,  Mr. 
Pendennis  did  not  care  to  inform  the  divine  of  the  General's 
insolent  behavior,  but  stated  that  the  affair  was  a  very  ugly  and 
disagreeable  one,  and  that  it  was  Iw  no  means  over  3'et. 

He  enjoined  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Portman  to  say  nothing  about 
the  business  at  Fairoaks  ;  and  then  he  returned  to  his  hotel, 
where  he  vented  his  wrath  upon  Mr.  Morgan  his  valet,  "  dam- 
min  and  cussin  up  stairs  and  down  stairs,"  as  that  gentleman 
observed  to  Mr.  Foker's  man,  in  whose  company  he  partook  of 
dinner  in  the  servants'  room  of  the  George. 

The  sei-vant  carried  the  news  to  his  master ;  and  Mr.  Foker 
having  finished  his  breakfast  about  this  time,  it  being  two 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  remembered  that  he  was  anxious  to 
know  the  result  of  the  interview  between  his  two  friends,  and 
having  inquired  the  number  of  the  Major's  sitting-room,  went 
over  in  his  brocade  dressing-gown,  and  knocked  for  admission. 

The  Major  had  some  business,  as  he  had  stated,  respecting 


118  PENDENNIS. 

a  lease  of  the  widow's,  about  which  he  was  desirous  of  consult- 
ing old  Mr.  Tatham,  the  law3-er,  who  had  been  his  brother's 
man  of  business,  and  who  had  a  branch-office  at  Claveriug, 
where  he  and  his  son  attended  market  and  other  days  three  or 
four  in  the  week.  This  gentleman  and  his  client  were  now  in 
consultation  Avhen  Mr.  Foker  showed  his  grand  dressing-gown 
and  embroidered  skull-cap  at  Major  Pendennis's  door. 

Seeing  the  Major  engaged  with  papers  and  red-tape,  and  an 
old  man  with  a  white  head,  the  modest  youth  was  for  drawing 
back  —  and  said,  "  Oh,  you're  busy  —  call  again  another  time." 
But  Mr.  Pendennis  wanted  to  see  him,  and  begged  him,  with  a 
smile,  to  enter  :  whereupon  Mr.  Foker  took  oft'  the  embroidered 
tarboosh  or  fez  (it  had  been  worked  b}'  the  fondest  of  mothers) 
and  advanced,  bowing  to  the  gentlemen  and  smiling  on  them 
graciousl}-.  Mr.  Tatham  had  never  seen  so  splendid  an  appari- 
tion before  as  this  brocaded  youth,  who  seated  himself  in  an 
arm-chair,  spreading  out  his  crimson  skirts,  and  looking  with 
exceeding  kindness  and  frankness  on  the  other  two  tenants  of 
the  room.  "You  seem  to  like  m^-  dressing-gown,  sir,"  he  said 
to  Mr.  Tatham.  "A  pretty  thing,  isn't  it?  Neat,  but  not  in 
the  least  gaudy.  And  how  do  j/ow  do?  Major  Pendennis,  sir, 
and  how  does  the  world  treat  you  ?  " 

There  was  that  in  Foker's  manner  and  appearance  which 
would  have  put  an  Inquisitor  into  good-humor,  and  it  smoothed 
the  wrinkles  under  Pendennis's  head  of  hair. 

"  I  have  had  an  interview  with  that  Irishman,  (3'ou  ma}^ 
speak  before  ni}'  friend,  Mr.  Tatham  here,  who  knows  all  the 
affairs  of  the  family,)  and  it  has  not,  I  own,  been  very  satisfac- 
tor}'.  He  won't  believe  that  m^-  nephew  is  poor :  he  saj's  we 
are  both  liars  :  he  did  me  the  honor  to  hint  that  I  was  a  cow- 
ard, as  I  took  leave.  And  I  thought  when  3'ou  knocked  at  the 
door,  that  you  might  be  the  gentleman  whom  I  expect  with  a 
challenge  from  Mr.  Costigan  —  that  is  how  the  world  treats 
me.  Mr.  Foker." 

"  You  don't  mean  that  Irishman,  the  actress's  father?"  cried 
Mr.  Tatham,  who  was  a  dissenter  himself,  and  did  not  patronize 
the  drama. 

"  That  Irishman,  the  actress's  father  —  the  very  man.  Have 
not  you  heard  what  a  fool  m}-  nephew  has  made  of  himself  about 
the  girl  ?  "  —  and  Major  Pendennis  had  to  recount  the  story  of 
his  nephew's  loves  to  the  lawj'er,  Mr.  Foker  coming  in  with 
appropriate  comments  in  his  usual  familiar  language. 

Tatham  was  lost  in  wonder  at  the  narrative.  Wh}'  had  not 
Mrs.   Pendennis   married   a   serious   man,   he   thought  —  Mr. 


PEXDENNIS.  119 

Tatham  was  a  Tvidower  —  and  kept  this  unfortunate  boy  from 
perdition?  As  for  Miss  Costigan,  he  would  say  nothing: 
her  profession  was  sufficient  to  characterize  her.  Mr.  Foker 
here  interposed  to  sa}-  he  had  known  some  uncommon  good 
oeoplc  in  the  booths,  as  he  called  the  Temple  of  the  Muses. 
Well  it  might  be  so,  Mr.  Tatham  hoped  so  —  but  the  father, 
Tatham  knew  personally'  —  a  man  of  the  worst  character,  a 
wine-bibber  and  an  idler  in  taverns  and  billiard-rooms,  and  a 
notorious  insolvent.  "I  can  understand  the  reason.  Major," 
he  said,  '•  wh}*  the  fellow  would  not  come  to  my  office  to  ascer- 
tain the  truth  of  the  statements  which  you  made  him.  We  have 
a  writ  out  against  him  and  another  disrej)utable  fellow,  one  of 
the  play-actors,  for  a  bill  given  to  Mr.  Skinner  of  this  city,  a 
most  respectable  Grocer  and  Wine  and  Spirit  Merchant,  and  a 
Member  of  the  Society  of  Friends.  This  Costigan  came  crying 
to  Mr.  Skinner,  —  crying  in  the  shop,  sir,  —  and  we  have  not 
proceeded  against  him  or  the  other,  as  neither  were  worth  pow- 
der aud  shot." 

It  was  whilst  Mr.  Tatham  was  engaged  in  telling  his  story 
that  a  third  knock  came  to  the  door,  and  there  entered  an 
athletic  gentleman  in  a  shabby  braided  frock,  bearing  in  his 
hand  a  letter  with  a  large  blotched  red  seal. 

"  Can  I  have  the  honor  of  speaking  with  JMajor  Pendennis 
in  private?  "he  began — "I  have  a  few  words  for  3-our  ear, 
sir.  I  am  the  bearer  of  a  mission  from  my  friend  Captain 
Costigan."  —  but  here  the  man  with  the  bass  voice  paused, 
faltered,  and  turned  pale  —  he  caught  sight  of  the  red  and  well- 
remembered  ftice  of  Mr.  Tatham. 

"  Hullo,  Garbetts,  speak  up  !  "  cried  ]\Ir.  Foker,  delighted. 

"  Why,  bless  my  soul,  it  is  the  other  party  to  the  bill !  "  said 
Mr.  Tatham.  "I  say,  sir;  stop  I  say."  But  Garbetts,  with 
a  face  as  blank  as  Macbeth's  when  Banquo's  ghost  appears 
upon  him,  gasped  some  inarticulate  words,  and  fled  out  of  the 
room. 

The  Major's  graWty  was  entirely  upset,  and  he  burst  out 
laughing.  So  did  Mr.  Foker,  who  said,  ''By  Jove,  it  was  a 
good  'un."  So  did  the  attorney,  although  by  profession  a  seri- 
ous man. 

"I  don't  think  there'll  be  any  fight,  Major,"  young  Foker 
said;  and  began  mimicking  the  tragedian.  "  If  there  is,  the 
old  gentleman  —  your  name  Tatham?  —  very  happy  to  make 
your  acquaintance,  Mr.  Tatham — may  send  the  bailiffs  to 
^separate  the  men  ;  "  luid  Mr.  Tatham  promised  to  do  so.  The 
Major  was  by  no  means  sorry  at  the  ludicrous  issue  of  the 


120  PENDENNIS. 

quarrel.  "  It  seems  to  me,  sir,"  he  said  to  Mr.  Foker,  "that 
you  always  arrive  to  put  me  into  good-humor." 

Nor  was  tliis  the  on!}"  occasion  on  wliich  Mr.  Foker  this  day 
was  destined  to  be  of  service  to  the  Pendennis  family.  We 
have  said  that  he  had  the  entree  of  Captain  Costigan's  lodgings, 
and  in  the  course  of  the  afternoon  he  thought  he  would  pay  the 
General  a  visit,  and  hear  from  his  own  lips  what  had  occurred 
in  the  conversation,  in  the  morning,  with  Mr.  Pendennis.  Cap- 
tain Costigan  was  not  at  home.  He  had  received  permission, 
nay,  encouragement  from  his  daughter,  to  go  to  the  convivial 
club  at  the  Magpie  Hotel,  where  no  doubt  he  was  bragging  at 
that  moment  of  his  desire  to  murder  a  certain  ruffian  ;  for  he 
was  not  onh'  brave,  but  he  knew  it  too,  and  liked  to  take  out 
his  courage,  and,  as  it  were,  give  it  an  airing  in  compan}'. 

Costigan  then  was  absent,  but  ]Miss  Fotheringay  was  at 
home  washing  the  tea-cups  whilst  Mr.  Bows  sat  opposite  to 
her. 

' '  Just  done  breakfast  I  see  —  how  do  ? "  said  Mr.  Foker, 
popping  in  his  little  funny  head. 

"■  Get  out,  you  funu}'  little  man,"  cried  Miss  Fotheringay. 

"You  mean  come  in,"  answered  the  other.  —  "  Here  we 
ure  !  "  and  entering  the  room  he  folded  his  arms  and  began 
twirling  his  head  round  and  round  with  immense  rapidity-,  like 
Harlequin  in  the  Pantomime  when  he  first  issues  from  his 
cocoon  or  envelope.  Miss  Fotheringay  laughed  with  all  her 
heart :  a  wink  of  Foker's  would  set  her  off  laughing,  when  the 
bitterest  joke  Bows  ever  made  could  not  get  a  smile  from  her, 
or  the  finest  of  poor  Pen's  speeches  would  only  puzzle  her.  At 
the  end  of  the  harlequinade  he  sank  down  on  one  knee  and 
kissed  her  hand. 

"You're  the  drollest  little  man,"  she  said,  and  gave  him  a 
great  good-humored  slap.  Pen  used  to  tremble  as  he  kissed 
her  hand.     Pen  would  have  died  of  a  slap. 

These  preliminaries  over,  the  three  began  to  talk ;  Mr. 
Foker  amused  his  companions  b}-  recounting  to  them  the  scene 
which  he  had  just  witnessed  of  the  discomfiture  of  Mr.  Gar- 
betts,  by  which  they  learned,  for  the  first  time,  how  far  the 
General  had  carried  his  wrath  against  ISIajor  Pendennis.  Foker 
spoke  strongly-  in  favor  of  the  Major's  character  for  veracity 
and  honor,  and  described  him  as  a  tip-top  s^'ell,  moving  in  the 
upper  circle  of  society,  who  would  never  submit  to  any  deceit 
—  much  more  to  deceive  such  a  charming  3'oung  woman  as 
Miss  Foth. 

He  touched  delicately  upon  the  delicate  marriage  question, 


tENDENNIS.  121 

though  he  couldn't  help  showing  that  he  held  Pen  rather  cheap. 
In  fact,  he  had  a  perhaps  just  contempt  for  Mr.  Pen's  high-flown 
sentimentality  ;  his  own  weakness,  as  he  thought,  not  lying 
that  way.  '•  I  knew  it  wouldn't  do.  Miss  Foth,"  said  he,  nod- 
ding his  little  head.  "  Couldn't  do.  Didn't  like  to  put  my 
hand  into  the  bag,  but  knew  it  couldn't  do.  He's  too  .young 
for  you  :  too  green :  a  deal  too  green :  and  he  turns  out  to 
be  poor  as  Job.  Can't  have  him  at  no  price,  can  she,  Mr. 
Bo?" 

"  Indeed  he's  a  nice  poor  boy,"  said  the  Fotheringay  rather 
sadly. 

"Poor  little  beggar,"  said  Bows,  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  and  stealing  up  a  queer  look  at  Miss  Fotheringay. 
Perhaps  he  thought  and  wondered  at  the  wa}-  in  which  women 
play  with  men,  and  coax  them  and  win  them  and  drop  them. 

But  Mr.  Bows  had  not  the  least  objection  to  acknowledge 
that  he  thought  Miss  Fotheringa}'  was  perfectly  right  in  giving 
up  Mr.  Arthur  Pendenuis,  and  that  in  his  idea  the  matcli  was 
always  an  absurd  one :  and  Miss  Costigan  owned  that  she 
thought  so  herself,  only  she  couldn't  send  away  two  thousand 
a-3^ear.  "  It  all  comes  of  believing  Papa's  silly  stories,"  she 
said  ;  "  faith,  I'll  choose  for  meself  another  time"  —  and  verj- 
likelj'  the  large  image  of  Lieutenant  Sir  Derb}'  Oaks  entered 
into  her  mind  at  that  instant. 

After  praising  Major  Pendennis,  whom  Miss  Costigan  de- 
clared to  be  a  proper  gentleman  entirely,  smelling  of  lavender, 
and  as  neat  as  a  pin,  — and  who  was  pronounced  by  Mr.  Bows 
to  be  the  right  sort  of  fellow,  though  rather  too  much  of  an 
old  buck,  Mr.  Foker  suddenly  bethought  him  to  ask  the  pair 
to  come  and  meet  the  Major  that  ver^'  evening  at  dinner  at 
his  apartment  at  the  George.  "  He  agreed  to  dine  with  me, 
and  I  think  after  the  —  after  the  little  shindy  this  morning,  in 
which  I  must  say  the  General  was  wrong,  it  would  look  kind, 
you  know.  —  I  know  the  Major  fell  in  love  with  you.  Miss 
Foth  :  he  said  so." 

"  So  she  ma}'  be  Mrs.  Pendennis  still,"  Bows  said  with  a 
sneer —  "  No  thank  you,  Mr.  F.  — I've  dined." 

"  Sure,  that  was  at  three  o'clock,"  said  Miss  Costigan,  who 
had  an  honest  appetite,  "  and  I  can't  go  without  you." 

"We'll  have  lobster-salad  and  Champagne,"  said  the  little 
monster,  who  could  not  construe  a  line  of  Latin,  or  do  a  sum 
beyond  the  Rule  of  Three.  Now,  for  lobster-salad  and  Cham- 
pagne in  an  honorable  manner.  Miss  Costigan  woukl  liave  gone 
anywhere  —  and   Major   Pendennis   actually  found  himself  at 


122  P>;InDENNIS. 

seven  o'clock,  seated  at  a  dinner-fcab'ie  m  coiupam}"  with  Mr. 
Bows,  a  professional  fiddler,  and  Miss  £ostigan,  whose  father 
had  wanted  t">  blow  nis  brains  out  a  few  hours  before. 

To  make  ti.e  happy  meeting  complete,  Mr.  Foker,  who  knew 
Costigan's  haunts,  despatched  Stoopid  to  the  club  at  the  Magpie, 
where  the  General  was  in  the  act  of  singing  a  pathetic  song, 
and  brought  him  jff  to  supper.  To  find  his  daughter  and  Bows 
seated  at  the  board  was  a  surprise  indeed  —  Major  Pendennis 
laughed,  and  coraially  held  out  his  hand,  which  the  General 
Officer  grasped  avec  pffusion  as  the  French  say.  in  iact  he  was 
considerably  inebriated,  and  had  already  been  crv'ng  over  his 
own  song  before  he  joined  the  little  party  at  the  George.  He 
burst  into  tears  more  tnan  once,  dunng;  tne  entertainment,  and 
called  the  Major  his  dearest  friend.  Sxoopid  and  Mr.  Foker 
walked  home  with  him  :  the  ivlajor  gallantl}-  giving  his  arm  to 
Miss  Costigan.  He  was  iet;etved  with  great  friendliness  when 
he  called  the  next  day,  when  Aianj-  civihties  passed  netween  the 
gentlemen.  On  taking  leave  ie  expressed  his  anxious  desire  to 
serve  Miss  Costigan  on  an}-  occasion  in  which  he  could  be  use- 
ful to  her,  and  he  Siiook  hands  with  Mr.  Foker  most  cordially 
and  gratefully,  and  said  that  gent.sman  had  done  nim  the  very 
greatest  service. 

"  All  right,"  liaid  Mr.  Foker:  and  the}'  parted  with  mutual 
esteem. 

On  his  return  to  Fairoaks  the  next  day,  Major  Pendennis 
did  not  say  what  had  happened  to  him  ou  the  previous  night, 
or  allude  to  the  compan}'  in  which  he  hat.  passed  it.  But  he 
engaged  Mr.  Smirke  to  stop  to  dinner ;  and  an}'  person  accus- 
tomed to  watch  his  manner  might  have  remax/ted  that  there  was 
something  constrained  in  his  hilarity  and  talkativeness,  and 
that  he  was  unusuall}'  gracious  and  watchful  in  his  communica- 
tions with  his  nephew.  He  gave  Pen  an  emphatic  God-bless- 
you  when  the  lad  went  to  bed  ;  and  as  they  vrere  about  to 
part  for  the  night,  he  seemed  as  if  he  were  going  to  sa}'  some- 
thing to  Mrs.  Pendennis,  but  he  bethought  him  that  if  he 
spoke  he  might  spoil  her  night's  rest,  and  allowed  her  to  sleep 
in  peace. 

The  next  morning  he  was  down  in  the  breakfast-room  earlier 
than  was  his  custom,  and  saluted  everybody  there  with  great 
cordiality.  The  post  used  to  arrive  commonly  about  the  end  of 
this  meal.  When  John,  the  old  servant,  entered,  and  dis- 
charged the  bag  of  its  letters  and  papers,  the  Major  looked 
hard  at  Pen  as  the  lad  got  his  —  Arthur  blushed,  and  put  hui 
letter  down.     He  knew  the  hand,  it  was  that  of  old  Costigan, 


PENDENXIS.  123 

and  he  did  not  care  to  read  it  in  public*.  Major  ?»3ndennis 
knew  the  letter,  too.  He  had  put  it  into  the  post  himself  in 
Chatteris  the  day  before. 

He  told  little  Laura  to  go  away,  which  the  child  did,  having 
a  thorough  dislike  to  him  ;  and  as  the  door  closed  on  her,  hr 
took  Mrs.  Pendennis's  hand,  and  giving  her  a  look  full  of  mean- 
ing, pointed  to  the  letter  under  the  newspaper  whj.ch  Pen  wa? 
pretending  to  read.  "  Will  3'ou  come  into  the  drawing-room? ' 
he  said.     "  I  want  to  speak  to  3'OU." 

And  she  followed  him,  wondering,  into  the  hall. 

"What  is  it?"  she  said  nervously. 

"  The  affair  is  at  an  end,"  Major  Pendennis  said.  "  He  has 
a  letter  there  giving  him  his  dismissal.  I  dictated  it  myself 
yesterday.  There  are  a  few  lines  from  the  lady,  too,  bidding 
him  farewell.     It  is  all  over." 

Helen  ran  back  into  the  dining-room,  her  brother  following. 
Pen  had  jumped  at  his  letter  the  instant  they  were  gone.  He 
was  reading  it  with  a  stupefied  face.  It  stated  what  the  Major 
had  said,  that  Mr.  Costigan  was  most  gratified  for  the  kindness 
with  which  Arthur  had  treated  his  daughter,  but  that  he  wa.*' 
only  now  made  aware  of  Mr.  Pendennis's  pecuniary  circum- 
stances. The}^  were  such  that  marriage  was  at  present  out  o^ 
the  question,  and  considering  the  great  disparity  in  the  age  o^ 
the  two,  a  future  union  was  impossible.  Under  these  circum 
stances,  and  with  the  deepest  regret  and  esteem  for  him,  Mr. 
Costigan  bade  Arthur  farewell,  and  suggested  that  he  should 
roase  visiting,  for  some  time  at  least,  at  his  house. 

A  few  lines  from  Miss  Costigan  were  enclosed.  She  ac- 
quiesced in  the  decision  of  her  Papa.  She  pointed  out  that 
she  was  many  years  older  than  Arthur,  and  that  an  engage- 
ment was  not  to  be  thought  of.  She  would  always  be  grateful 
for  his  kindness  to  her,  and  hoped  to  keep  his  friendship.  But 
at  present,  and  until  the  pain  of  the  separation  sliould  be  over, 
she  entreated  they  should  not  meet. 

Pen  read  Costigan's  letter  and  its  enclosure  mechanically, 
hardly  knowing  what  was  before  his  eyes.  He  looked  up 
wildly,  and  saw  his  mother  and  uncle  regarding  him  with  sad 
faces.     Helen's,  indeed,  was  full  of  tender  maternal  anxiety. 

"  What  —  what  is  this?"  Pen  said.  "  It's  some  joke.  This 
is  not  her  writing.  This  is  some  servant's  writing.  Who's 
playing  these  tricks  upon  me  ?  " 

'"It  comes  under  her  father's  envelope,"  the  Major  said. 
"Those  letters  you  had  before  were  not  in  her  hand :  that  is 
hers. " 


124  PENDENNIS. 

" How  do  you  know?"  said  Pen  very  fiercely. 

"  I  saw  her  write  it,"  the  uncle  answered,  as  the  boy  started 
up  ;  and  his  mother,  coming  forward,  took  his  hand.  He  put 
her  away. 

"  How  came  you  to  see  her?  How  came  you  between  me 
and  her?  What  have  I  ever  done  to  you  that  you  should  — 
Oh,  it's  not  true  ;  it's  not  true  !  "  —  Pen  broke  out  with  a  wild 
execration.  "  She  can't  have  done  it  of  her  own  accord.  She 
can't  mean  it.  She's  pledged  to  me.  Who  has  told  her  lies 
to  break  her  from  me  ?  " 

"  Lies  are  not  told  in  the  family,  Arthur,"  Major  Pendennis 
replied.  "  I  told  her  the  truth,  which  was,  that  you  had  no 
money  to  maintain  her,  for  her  foolish  father  had  represented 
3'ou  to  be  rich.  And  when  she  knew  how  poor  you  were,  she 
withdrew  at  once,  and  without  any  persuasion  of  mine.  She 
was  quite  right.  She  is  ten  3ears  older  than  3'OU  are.  She  is 
perfectly  unfitted  to  be  your  wife,  and  knows  it.  Look  at  that 
handwriting,  and  ask  yourself,  is  such  a  woman  fitted  to  be 
the  companion  of  your  mother  ?  " 

"  I  will  know  from  herself  if  it  is  true,"  Arthur  said,  crump- 
ling up  the  paper. 

"Won't  you  take  my  word  of  honor?  Her  letters  were 
written  by  a  confidante  of  hers,  who  writes  better  than  she  can 
—  look  here.  Here's  one  from  the  lady  to  3-our  friend,  Mr. 
Foker.  You  have  seen  her  with  Miss  Costigan,  as  whose 
amanuensis  she  acted"  —  the  Major  said,  with  ever  so  little  of 
a  sneer,  and  laid  down  a  certain  billet  which  Mr.  Foker  had 
given  to  him. 

"It's  not  that,"  said  Pen,  burning  with  shame  and  rage. 
"I  suppose  what  you  say  is  true,  sir,  but  I'll  hear  it  from 
herself." 

"  Arthur  !  "  appealed  his  mother. 

"  I  will  see  her,"  said  Arthur.  "  I'll  ask  her  to  marrj^  me, 
once  more.     I  will.     No  one  shall  prevent  me." 

"What,  a  woman  who  spells  aff"ection  with  one  f ?  Non- 
sense, sir.  Be  a  man,  and  remember  that  your  mother  is  a 
lady.  She  was  never  made  to  associate  with  that  tips}^  old 
swindler  or  his  daughter.  Be  a  man  and  forget  her,  as  she 
does  you." 

"  Be  a  man  and  comfort  your  mother,  my  Arthur,"  Helen 
said,  going  and  embracing  him  :  and  seeing  that  the  pair  were 
greatly  moved.  Major  Pendennis  went  out  of  the  room  and 
shut  the  door  upon  them,  wisely  judging  that  they  were  best 
alone. 


PENDENNIS.  125 

He  had  won  a  complete  victor}-.  He  actuall}'  had  brought 
away  Pen's  letters  in  his  portmanteau  from  Chatteris  :  having 
complimented  Mr.  Costigan,  when  he  returned  them,  b}-  giving 
him  the  little  promissory  note  which  had  disquieted  himself 
and  Mr.  Garbetts :  and  for  which  the  Major  settled  with  Mr. 
Tatham. 

Pen  rushed  wildly  off  to  Chatteris  that  day,  but  in  vain 
attempted  to  see  Miss  Fotheringay,  for  whom  he  left  a  letter, 
enclosed  to  her  father.  The  enclosure  was  returned  by  Mr. 
Costigan,  who  begged  that  all  correspondence  might  end ;  and 
after  one  or  two  further  attempts  of  the  lad's,  the  indignant 
General  desired  that  their  acquaintance  might  cease.  He  cut 
Pen  in  the  street.  As  Arthur  and  Foker  were  pacing  the 
Castle  walk,  one  day,  they  came  upon  Emily  on  her  father's 
arm.  She  passed  without  any  nod  of  recognition.  Foker  felt 
poor  Pen  trembling  on  his  arm. 

His  uncle  wanted  him  to  travel,  to  quit  the  countr}-  for  a 
while,  and  his  mother  urged  him  too  :  for  he  was  growing  very 
ill,  and  suffered  severely.  But  he  refused,  and  said  point- 
blank  he  would  not  go.  He  would  not  obey  in  this  instance  : 
and  his  mother  was  too  fond,  and  his  uncle  too  wise  to  force 
him.  Whenever  Miss  Fotlieringay  acted,  he  rode  over  to  the 
Chatteris  Theatre  and  saw  her.  One  night  there  were  so  few 
people  in  the  house  that  the  Manager  returned  the  money. 
Pen  came  home  and  went  to  bed  at  eight  o'clock  and  had  a 
fever.  If  this  continues,  his  mother  will  be  going  over  and  fetch- 
ing the  girl,  the  Major  thought  in  despair.  As  for  Pen,  he  thought 
he  should  die.  We  are  not  going  to  describe  his  feelings,  or 
give  a  dreary  journal  of  his  despair  and  passion.  Have  not 
other  gentlemen  been  balked  in  love  besides  Mr.  Pen?  Yes, 
indeed  :  but  few  die  of  the  malady. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

IN   WHICH    MISS    FOTHERINGAT    MAKES    A    NEW    ENGAGEMENT. 

Within  a  short  period  of  tlie  events  above  narrated,  Mr. 
Manager  Bingley  was  performing  liis  Himous  character  of  RoUa, 
in  "  Pizarro,"  to  a  house;  so  exceedingly  thin,  that  it  would 
appear  as  if  the  part  of  Rolla  was  by  no  means  such  a  favorite 
with  the  people  of  Chatteris  as  it  was  with  the  accomplished 


1 26  PENDENNIS. 

actor  himself.  Scarce  anybod}^  was  in  tlie  theatre.  Poor  Pen 
had  the  boxes  ahnost  all  to  himself,  and  sat  there  lonely,  with 
blood-shot  eyes,  leaning  over  the  ledge,  and  gazing  haggardly 
towards  the  scene,  when  Cora  came  in.  When  she  was  not  on 
the  stage  he  saw  nothing.  Spaniards  and  Peruvians,  proces- 
sions and  battles,  priests  and  virgins  of  the  sun,  went  in  and 
out,  and  hail  their  talk,  but  Arthur  took  no  note  of  any  one  of 
them  ;  and  onl^-  saw  Cora  whom  his  soul  longed  after.  Ho 
said  afterwards  that  he  wondered  he  had  not  taken  a  pistol  to 
shoot  her,  so  mad  was  he  with  love,  and  rage,  and  despair ; 
and  had  it  not  been  for  his  mother  at  home,  to  whom  he  did 
not  speak  about  his  luckless  condition,  but  whose  silent  sym- 
pathy and  watchfulness  greatl}'  comforted  the  simple  half  heart- 
broken fellow,  who  knows  but  he  might  have  done  something 
desperate,  and  have  ended  his  days  prematurely  in  front  of 
Chattei-is  gaol?  There  he  sat  then,  miserable,  and  gazing  at 
her.  And  she  took  no  more  notice  of  him  than  he  did  of  the 
rest  of  the  house. 

The  Fotheringay  was  uncommonly  handsome,  in  a  white  rai- 
ment and  leopard  skin,  with  a  sun  upon  her  breast,  and  fine 
tawdry  bracelets  on  her  beautiful  glancing  arms.  She  spouted 
to  admiration  the  few  words  of  her  part,  and  looked  it  still 
better.  The  eyes,  which  had  overthrown  Pen's  soul,  rolled  and 
gleamed  as  lustrous  as  ever ;  but  it  was  not  to  him  that  they 
were  directed  that  night.  He  did  not  know  to  whom,  or  remariv 
a  couple  of  gentlemen,  in  the  box  next  to  him,  upon  whom  Miss 
Fotheringay's  glances  were  perpetually  shining. 

Nor  had  Pen  noticed  the  extraordinary  change  which  had 
taken  place  on  the  stage  a  short  time  after  the  entr}'  of  these 
two  gentlemen  into  the  theatre.  There  were  so  few  people  in 
the  house,  that  the  first  act  of  the  play  languished  entirel}',  and 
there  had  been  some  question  of  returning  the  money,  as  upon 
that  other  unfortunate  night  when  poor  Pen  had  been  driven 
away.  The  actors  were  perfectly  careless  about  their  parts, 
and  yawned  through  the  dialogue,  and  talked  loud  to  each  other 
in  the  intervals.  Even  Bingley  was  listless,  and  Mrs.  B.  in 
Elvira  spoke  under  her  breath. 

How  came  it  that  all  of  a  sudden  Mrs.  Bingley  began  to  raise 
her  voice  and  bellow  like  a  bull  of  Bashan  ?  Whence  was  it  thut 
Bingley,  flinging  off  his  apathy,  darted  about  the  stage  and 
yelled  like  Kean  ?  Why  did  Garbetts  and  Rowkins  and  Miss 
Rounc}-  tr^',  each  of  them,  the  force  of  their  charms  or  graces, 
and  act  and  swagger  and  scowl  and  spout  their  very  loudest  at 
the  two  gentlemen  in  box  No.  S? 


PENDENNIS.  127 

One  was  a  quiet  little  man  in  black,  with  a  gray  head  and  a 
jolly  shrewd  face  —  the  other  was  in  all  respects  a  splendid  and 
remarkable  individual.  He  was  a  tall  and  portly  gentleman 
with  a  hooked  nose  and  a  i)rofusion  of  curling  brown  hair  and 
whiskers  ;  his  coat  was  covered  with  the  richest  frogs,  braiding, 
and  velvet.  He  had  under- waistcoats,  manj'  splendid  rings, 
jewelled  pins  and  neck-chains.  When  he  took  out  his  yello\< 
pocket-handkerchief  with  his  hand  that  was  cased  in  white  kids, 
a  delightful  odor  of  musk  and  bergamot  was  shaken  through 
the  house.  He  was  evidently  a  personage  of  rank,  and  it  was 
at  him  that  the  little  Chatteris  company  was  acting. 

He  was,  in  a  word,  no  other  than  Mr.  Dolphin,  the  great 
manager  from  London,  accompanied  b\"  his  faithful  friend  and 
secretary  Mr.  AVilliam  Minns  :  without  whom  he  never  trav- 
elled. He  had  not  been  ten  minutes  in  the  theati-e  before  his 
august  presence  there  was  perceived  b}'  Bingle}'  and  the  rest : 
and  they  all  began  to  act  their  best  and  tr}'  to  engage  his  atten- 
tion. Even  Miss  Fotheringa3''s  dull  heart,  which  was  distui'bed 
at  nothing,  felt  perhaps  a  flutter,  when  she  came  in  presence  of 
the  famous  London  Impresario.  She  had  not  much  to  do  in  her 
part,  but  to  look  handsome,  and  stand  in  picturesque  attitudes 
encircling  her  child  :  and  she  did  this  work  to  admiration.  In 
vain  the  various  actors  tried  to  win  the  favor  of  the  great  stage 
Sultan.  Pizarro  never  got  a  hand  from  him.  Binglej'  jelled. 
and  Mrs.  Bingley  bellowed,  and  the  Manager  onlj'  took  snuff 
out  of  his  great  gold  box.  It  was  only  in  the  last  scene,  when 
RoUa  comes  in  staggering  with  the  infant  (Bingley  is  not  so 
strong  as  he  was,  and  his  fourth  son  Master  Talma  Bingley  is  a 
monstrous  large  child  for  his  age)  —  when  RoUa  comes  stag- 
gering with  the  child  to  Cora,  who  rushes  forward  with  a  shriek 
and  says  —  "  O  God,  there's  blood  upon  him  !  "  —  that  the  Lon- 
don manager  clapped  his  hands,  and  broke  out  with  an  enthu- 
siastic bravo. 

Then  haAing  concluded  his  applause,  Mr.  Dolphin  gave  liis 
secretary  a  slap  on  the  shoulder,  and  said  "  By  Jove,  Billv, 
she'll  do ! " 

"Who  taught  her  that  dodge?"  said  old  Billy,  who  was  a 
sardonic  old  gentleman  —  "I  remember  her  at  the  Olympic, 
and  hang  me  if  she  could  sa)'  Bo  to  a  goose." 

It  was  little  Mr.  Bows  in  the  orchestra  who  had  taught  her 
the  "  dodge  "  in  question.  All  tlie  compau}'  heard  the  appUiuse, 
and,  as  the  curtain  went  down,  came  round  her  and  congratu- 
lated and  hated  Miss  Fotheringa}-. 

Now  Mr.  Dolphin's  appearance  in  the  remote  little  Chattei'is 


128  PENDENNIS. 

theatre  ma}'  be  accounted  for  in  this  manner.  In  spite  of  all 
his  exertions,  and  the  perpetual  blazes  of  triumph,  coruscations 
of  talent,  victories  of  good  old  English  corned^',  which  his  pla}-- 
bills  advertised,  his  theatre  (which,  if  j^ou  please,  and  to  injure 
no  present  susceptibilities  and  vested  interests,  we  shall  call  the 
Museum  Theatre)  by  no  means  prospered,  and  the  famous  Im- 
presario found  himself  on  the  verge  of  ruin.  The  gi-eat  Hub- 
bard had  acted  legitimate  drama  for  twenty'  nights,  and  failed 
to  remunerate  anybody  but  himself:  the  celebrated  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Cawdor  had  come  out  in  Mr.  Rawhead's  traged}-,  and  in 
their  favorite  round  of  pieces,  and  had  not  attracted  the  public. 
Herr  Garbage's  lions  and  tigers  had  drawn  for  a  little  time, 
until  one  of  the  animals  had  bitten  a  piece  out  of  the  Herr's 
shoulder ;  when  the  Lord  Chamberlain  interfered,  and  put  a 
stop  to  this  species  of  performance  ;  and  the  grand  L3Tical 
Drama,  though  brought  out  with  unexampled  splendor  and 
success,  with  Monsieur  Poumons  as  first  tenor,  and  an  enor- 
mous orchestra,  had  almost  crushed  poor  Dolphin  in  its  tri- 
umphant progress  :  so  that  great  as  his  genius  and  resources 
were,  they  seemed  to  be  at  an  end.  He  was  dragging  on  his 
season  wretchedly  with  half  salaries,  small  operas,  feeble  old 
comedies,  and  his  ballet  compau}- ;  and  everybod}'  was  looking 
out  for  the  da}-  when  he  should  appear  in  the  Gazette. 

One  of  the  illustrious  patrons  of  the  Museiun  Theatre,  and 
occupant  of  the  great  proscenium-box,  was  a  gentleman  whose 
name  has  been  mentioned  in  a  previous  history  ;  that  refined 
patron  of  the  arts,  and  enlightened  lover  of  music  and  the 
drama,  the  Most  Noble  the  Marquis  of  Stejme.  His  lordship's 
avocations  as  a  statesman  prevented  him  from  attending  the 
pla^'house  very  often,  or  coming  ver}-  earl}'.  But  he  oecasion- 
all}'  appeai'ed  at  the  theatre  in  time  for  the  ballet,  and  was 
always  received  with  the  greatest  respect  b}'  the  Manager,  from 
whom  he  sometimes  condescended  to  receive  a  visit  in  his  box. 
It  communicated  with  the  stage,  and  when  an3-thiug  occurred 
there  which  particularl}'  pleased  him,  when  a  new  face  made  its 
appearance  among  the  coryphees,  or  a  fair  dancer  executed  a 
pas  with  especial  grace  or  agility,  Mr.  Wenham,  Mr.  Wagg,  or 
some  other  aide-de-camp  of  the  noble  Marquis,  would  be  com- 
missioned to  go  behind  the  scenes,  and  express  the  great  man's 
approbation,  or  make  the  inquiries  which  were  prompted  by  his 
lordship's  curiosit}^  or  his  interest  in  the  dramatic  art.  He 
could  not  be  seen  by  the  audience,  for  Lord  Ste3-ne  sat  mod- 
estly behind  a  curtain,  and  looked  onl}'  towards  the  stage  — 
but  3'ou  could  know  he  was  in  the  house,  by  the  glances  which 


PENDENNIS.  129 

all  the  corps-de-ballet,  and  all  the  principal  dancers,  cast 
towards  his  box.  I  have  seen  many  scores  of  pairs  of  eyes  (as 
in  the  Pahn  Dance  in  the  ballet  of  Cook  at  Otaheite,  where  no 
less  than  a  hundi-ed  and  twenty  lovely  female  savages  in  palm 
leaves  and  feather  aprons  were  made  to  dance  round  Floridar 
as  Captain  Cook) ,  ogling  that  box  as  the}'  performed  before  it, 
and  have  often  wondered  to  remark  the  presence  of  mind  of 
Mademoiselle  Sauterelle,  or  Mademoiselle  de  Bondi  (known  as 
la  petite  Caoutchouc),  who,  when  actually  up  in  the  air  quiver- 
ing like  so  many  shuttlecocks,  always  kept  their  lovely  eyes 
winking  at  that  box  in  which  the  great  Steyne  sat.  Now  and 
then  you  would  hear  a  harsh  voice  from  behind  the  curtain,  cry, 
"Brava,  Brava,"  or  a  pair  of  white  gloves  wave  from  it,  and 
begin  to  applaud.  Bondi,  or  Sauterelle,  when  they  came  down 
to  earth,  curtsied  and  smiled,  especially  to  those  hands,  before 
the}'  walked  up  the  stage  again,  panting  and  happy. 

One  night  this  great  Prince  surrounded  by  a  few  choice 
friends  was  in  his  box  at  the  Museum,  and  they  were  making 
such  a  noise  and  laughter  that  the  pit  was  scandalized,  and 
many  indignant  voices  were  bawling  out  silence  so  loudly,  that 
Wagg  wondered  the  police  did  not  interfere  to  take  the  rascals 
out.  Wenham  was  amusing  the  part}'  in  the  box  with  extracts 
from  a  private  letter  which  he  had  received  from  Major  Pen- 
dennis,  whose  absence  in  the  country  at  the  full  London  season 
had  been  remarked,  and  of  course  deplored  by  his  friends. 

"  The  secret  is  out,"  said  Mr.  Wenham,  "  there's  a  woman 
in  the  case." 

"Why,  d —  it,  Wenham,  he's  your  age,"  said  the  gentle- 
man behind  the  curtain. 

"  Pour  les  ames  bien  nees,  I'amour  ne  compte  pas  le  norabre 
des  annees,"  said  Mr.  Wenham,  with  a  gallant  air.  "  For  my 
part,  I  hope  to  be  a  victim  till  I  die,  and  to  break  my  heart 
every  year  of  my  life."  The  meaning  of  which  sentence  was, 
"My  lord,  you  need  not  talk;  I'm  three  years  younger  than 
}0U,  and  twice  as  well  conserve  " 

"  Wenham,  you  affect  me,"  said  the  great  man,  with  one  of 
his  usual  oaths.  "  By you  do.  I  like  to  see  a  fellow  pre- 
serving all  the  illusions  of  youth  up  to  our  time  of  life  —  and 
keeping  his  heart  warm  as  yours  is.  Hang  it,  sir,  — it's  a  com- 
fort to  meet  with  such  a  generous,  candid  creature.  —  Who's 
that  gal  in  the  second  row,  with  blue  ribbons,  third  from  the 
stage  —  fine  gal.  Yes,  you  and  1  are  sentimentalists.  Wagg 
1  don't  think  so  much  cares  —  it's  the  stomach  rather  more 
than  the  heart  with  you,  eh,  Wagg,  my  boy?" 


130  PENDENNIS. 

"  I  like  everj^thing  that's  good,"  said  Mr.  Wagg,  gener- 
ously. "Beauty  and  Burgundy,  Venus  and  Venison.  1  don't 
say  that  Venus's  turtles  are  to  be  despised,  because  they  don't 
cook  them  at  the  London  Tavern  :  but  —  but  tell  us  about  old 
Pendennis,  Mr.  Wenham,"  he  abruptly  concluded  —  for  his  joke 
flagged  just  then,  as  he  saw  that  his  patron  was  not  listening. 
In  fact,  Steyne's  glasses  were  up,  and  he  was  examining  some 
object  on  the  stage. 

"Yes,  I've  heard  that  joke  about  Venus's  turtle  and  the 
London  Tavern  before  —  you  begin  to  fail,  my  poor  Wagg.  If 
you  don't  mind  I  shall  be  obliged  to  have  a  new  Jester,"  Lord 
Steyne  said,  la3'ing  down  his  glass.  "  Go  on,  Wenham,  about 
old  Pendennis." 

"  Dear  Wenham,  —  he  begins,"  Mr.  Wenham  read,  —  "as 
you  have  had  my  character  in  your  hands  for  the  last  three 
weeks,  and  no  doubt  have  torn  me  to  shreds,  according  to  your 
custom,  I  think  3'ou  can  afford  to  be  good-humored  by  way  of 
variety,  and  to  do  me  a  service.  It  is  a  delicate  matter,  entre 
nous,  une  affaire  de  cceur.  There  is  a  young  friend  of  mine  who 
is  gone  wild  about  a  certain  Miss  Fotheringay,  an  actress  at 
the  theatre  here,  and  I  must  own  to  you,  as  handsome  a  woman, 
and,  as  it  appears  to  me,  as  good  an  actress  as  ever  put  on 
rouge.  She  does  Ophelia,  Lady  Teazle,  Mrs.  Haller — that 
sort  of  thing.  Upon  m3^  word,  she  is  as  splendid  as  Georges 
in  her  best  da3's,  and,  as  far  as  I  know,  utterly  superior  to  any- 
thing we  have  on  our  scene.  /  want  a  London  engagement  for 
her.  Can't  3'ou  get  3^om'  friend  Dolphin  to  come  and  see  her  — 
to  engage  her  —  to  take  her  out  of  this  place  ?  A  word  from  a 
noble  friend  of  ours  (3'ou  understand)  would  be  invaluable,  and 
if  3'OU  could  get  the  Gaunt  House  interest  for  me  —  I  will 
promise  anything  I  can  in  return  for  3'our  service  —  which  I 
shall  consider  one  of  the  greatest  that  can  be  done  to  me.  Do, 
do  this  now  as  a  good  fellow,  which  /  always  said  you  were; 
and  in  return,  command  yours  trul3', 

A.  Pendennis." 

"  It's  a  clear  case,"  said  Mr.  Wenham,  having  read  this 
letter;  "  old  Pendennis  is  in  love." 

"  And  wants  to  get  the  woman  up  to  London  —  evidentl3^," 
continued  Mr.  Wagg. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  Pendennis  on  his  knees,  with  the 
rheumatism,"  said  Mr.  Wenham. 

"  Or  accommodating  the  beloved  object  with  a  lock  of  his 
hair,"  said  Wagg. 


PENDENNIS.  131 

"Stuff,"  said  tlie  great  man.  "He  has  relations  in  the 
count}',  hasn't  he  ?  He  said  something  about  a  nepliew,  whose 
interest  could  return  a  member.  It  is  the  nephew's  affair, 
depend  on  it.  The  young  one  is  in  a  scrape.  I  was  myself  — 
when  I  was  in  the  fifth  form  at  Eton  —  a  market-gardener's 
daughter  —  and  swore  I'd  marry  her.  I  was  mad  about  her  — 
poor  Polly !  "  —  Here  he  made  a  pause,  and  perhaps  the  past 
rose  up  to  Lord  Steyne,  and  George  Gaunt  was  a  bo}'  again  not 
altogether  lost.  —  "  But  I  sa^-,  she  must  be  a  fine  woman  from 
Pendennis's  account.  Have  in  Dolphin,  and  let  us  hear  if  he 
knows  an3i;hing  of  her." 

At  this  Wenham  sprang  out  of  the  box,  passed  the  servitor 
who  waited  at  the  door  communicating  with  the  stage,  and  who 
saluted  Mr.  Wenham  with  profound  respect ;  and  the  latter 
emissary,  pushing  on  and  familiar  with  the  place,  had  no  diffi- 
culty in  finding  out  the  manager,  who  was  employed,  as  he  not 
unfrequently  was,  in  swearing  and  cursing  the  ladies  of  the 
corps-de-ballet  for  not  doing  their  duty. 

The  oaths  died  away  on  Mr.  Dolphin's  lips,  as  soon  as  he 
saw  Mr.  "Wenham ;  and  he  drew  off'  the  hand  which  was 
clenched  in  the  face  of  one  of  the  offending  cor3phees,  to 
grasp  that  of  the  new  comer.  "How  do,  Mr.  Wenham? 
How's  his  lordship  to-night?  Looks  uncommonl}-  well,"  said 
the  manager  smiling",  as  if  he  had  never  been  out  of  temper  in 
his  life  ;  and  he  was  only  too  delighted  to  follow  Lord  Ste3'ne"s 
ambassador,  and  pay  his  personal  respects  to  that  great 
man. 

The  visit  to  Chatteris  was  the  result  of  their  conversation  : 
and  Mr.  Dolphin  wrote  to  his  lordship  from  that  place,  and 
did  himself  the  honor  to  inform  the  Marquis  of  Sterne,  that  he 
had  seen  the  lady  about  whom  his  lordship  had  spoken,  that 
he  was  as  much  struck  by  her  talents  as  he  was  by  her  per- 
sonal appearance,  and  that  he  had  made  an  engagement  with 
Miss  Fotheringay,  who  would  soon  have  the  honor  of  appear- 
ing before  a  London  audience,  and  his  noble  and  enlightened 
patron  the  Marquis  of  Steyne. 

Pen  read  the  announcement  of  Miss  Fotheringay's  engage- 
ment in  the  Chatteris  paper,  where  he  had  so  often  praised  her 
charms.  The  Editor  made  very  handsome  mention  of  her  tal- 
ent and  beauty,  and  prophesied  her  success  in  the  metropolis. 
Bingley,  the  manager,  began  to  adveilise  "The  last  night  of 
Miss  Fotheringay's  engagement."  Poor  Pen  and  Sir  Derby 
Oaks  were  ver}'  constant  at  the  play :  Sir  Derb^^  in  the  stage- 
box  throwing  bouquets  and  getting  glances,  --^  Pen  in  the  almost 


132  PENDENNIS. 

deserted  boxes,  haggard,  wretched,  and  lonely.  Nobody  care(^ 
whether  Miss  Fotheringay  was  going  or  staying  except  those 
two  —  and  perhaps  one  more,  which  was  Mr.  Bows  of  the 
orchestra. 

He  came  out  of  his  place  one  night,  and  went  into  the 
house  to  the  box  where  Pen  was  ;  and  he  held  out  his  hand  to 
him,  and  asked  him  to  come  and  walk.  They  walked  down 
the  street  together ;  and  went  and  sat  upon  Chatteris  bi-idge  in 
the  moonlight,  and  talked  about  Ber.  "  We  may  sit  on  the 
same  bridge,"  said  he  :  "we  have  been  in  the  same  boat  for  a 
long  time.  You  are  not  the  only  man  who  has  made  a  fool  of 
himself  about  that  woman.  And  I  have  less  excuse  than  you, 
because  I'm  older  and  know  her  better.  She  has  no  more 
heart  than  the  stone  you  are  leaning  on  ;  and  it  or  you  or  I 
might  fall  into  the  water,  and  never  come  up  again,  and  she 
wouldn't  care.  Yes  —  she  would  care  for  me,  because  she 
wants  me  to  teach  her :  and  she  won't  be  able  to  get  on  with- 
out me,  and  will  be  forced  to  send  for  me  from  London.  But 
she  wouldn't  if  she  didn't  want  me.  She  has  no  heart  and 
no  head,  and  no  sense,  and  no  feelings,  and  no  griefs  or  cares, 
whatever.  I  was  going  to  say  no  pleasures  —  but  the  fact  is, 
she  does  like  her  dinner,  and  she  is  pleased  when  people  ad- 
mire her." 

"  And  you  do?"  said  Pen,  interested  out  of  himself,  and 
wondering  at  the  crabbed  homely  little  old  man. 

"It's  a  habit,  like  taking  snuff,  or  drinking  drams,"  said 
the  other.  "  I've  been  taking  her  these  five  years,  and  can't  do 
without  her.  It  was  I  made  her.  If  she  doesn't  send  for  me, 
I  shall  follow  her:  but  I  know  she'll  send  for  me.  She  wants 
me.  Some  day  she'll  marr^^,  and  fling  me  over,  as  I  do  the  end 
of  this  cigar." 

The  little  flaming  spark  dro^Dped  into  the  water  below,  and 
disappeared ;  and  Pen,  as  he  rode  home  that  night,  actually 
thought  about  somebodj^  but  himself. 


PENDENNIS.  133 

CHAPTER   XV. 

THE    HAPPY    VILLAGE. 

Until  the  enemy  had  retired  altogether  from  before  the 
place,  Major  Pendennis  was  resolved  to  keep  his  garrison  in 
Fairoaks.  He  did  not  appear  to  watch  Pen's  behavior,  or  to 
put  an}^  restraint  on  his  nephew's  actions,  but  he  managed, 
nevertheless,  to  keep  the  lad  constantly  under  his  eye  or  those 
of  his  agents,  and  young  Arthur's  comings  and  goings  were 
quite  well  known  to  his  vigilant  guardian. 

I  suppose  there  is  scarcely  any  man  who  reads  this  or  any 
other  novel  but  has  been  ballied  in  love  sometime  or  the  other, 
b}'  fate  and  circumstance,  bj'  falsehood  of  women,  or  his  own 
fault.  Let  that  worth}-  friend  recall  his  own  sensations  under 
the  circumstances,  and  apply  them  as  illustrative  of  Mr.  Pen's 
anguish.  Ah  !  what  weary  nights  and  sickening  fevers  !  Ah  ! 
what  mad  desires  dashing  up  against  some  rock  of  obstruction 
or  indifference,  and  flung  back  again  from  the  unimpression- 
able granite  !  If  a  list  could  be  made  this  very  night  in  London 
of  the  groans,  thoughts,  imprecations  of  tossing  lovers,  what  a 
catalogue  it  would  be  !  I  wonder  what  a  percentage  of  the 
male  population  of  the  metropolis  will  be  lying  awake  at  two  or 
three  o'clock  to-morrow  morning,  counting  the  hours  as  they  go 
by,  knelling  drearily-,  and  rolling  from  left  to  right,  restless, 
yearning,  and  heart-sick  ?  What  a  pang  it  is  !  I  never  knew 
a  man  die  of  love,  certainly,  but  I  have  known  a  twelve  stone 
man  go  down  to  nine  stone  five  under  a  disappointed  passion, 
so  that  pretty  nearly  a  quarter  of  him  ma}'  be  said  to  have 
perished  :  and  that  is  no  small  portion.  He  has  come  back 
to  his  old  size  subsequeutl}'  —  perhaps  is  bigger  than  ever : 
very  likel}-  some  new  afl^ection  has  closed  round  his  heart 
and  ribs  and  made  them  comfortable,  and  3'oung  Pen  is  a 
man  who  will  console  himself  like  the  rest  of  us.  We  sa}^  this 
lest  the  ladies  should  be  disposed  to  deplore  him  prematurely, 
or  be  seriousl}'  uneas}'  with  regard  to  his  complaint.  His 
mother  was,  but  what  will  not  a  maternal  fondness  fear  or  in- 
vent? "Depend  on  it,  my  dear  creature,"  Major  Pendennis 
would  sa}'  gallantly  to  her,  "  the  boy  will  recover.  As  soon  as 
we  get  her  out  of  the  country,  we  will  take  him  somewhere,  and 
show  him  a  little  life.      Meantime  make  3'ourself  easy  about 


134  PENDENNIS. 

him.  Half  a  fellow's  pangs  at  losing  a  woman  result  from 
vanity  more  than  affection.  To  be  left  by  a  woman  is  the 
deuce  and  all,  to  be  sure ;  but  look  how  easily  we  leave 
'em." 

Mrs.  Pendennis  did  not  know.  This  sort  of  knowledge  had 
by  no  means  come  within  the  simple  lady's  scope.  Indeed,  she 
did  not  like  the  subject  or  to  talk  of  it :  her  heart  had  had  its 
own  little  private  misadventure,  and  she  had  borne  up  against 
it,  and  cured  it :  and  perhaps  slie  had  not  much  patience  with 
other  folks'  passions,  except,  of  course,  Arthur's,  whose  suffer- 
ings she  made  her  own,  feeling  indeed  very  likely,  in  many  of 
the  boy's  illnesses  and  pains,  a  great  deal  more  than  Pen  him- 
self endured.  And  she  watched  him  through  this  present  grief 
with  a  jealous  silent  sympathy  ;  although,  as  we  have  said,  he 
did  not  talk  to  her  of  his  unfortunate  condition. 

The  Major  must  be  allowed  to  have  had  not  a  little  merit 
and  forbearance,  and  to  have  exhibited  a  highly  creditable 
degree  of  familj'  affection.  The  life  at  Fairoaks  was  uncom- 
monly dull  to  a  man  who  had  the  entree  of  half  the  houses  in 
London,  and  was  in  the  habit  of  making  his  bow  in  three  or 
four  drawing-rooms  of  a  night.  A  dinner  with  Doctor  Portman 
or  a  neighboring  Squire  now  and  then  ;  a  dreary  rubber  at 
backgammon  with  the  widow,  who  did  her  utmost  to  amuse 
him  ;  these  were  the  chief  of  his  pleasures.  Ke  used  to  long  for 
the  arrival  of  the  bag  with  the  letters,  and  he  read  every  word 
of  the  evening  paper.  He  doctored  himself  too,  assiduousl}', — 
a  course  of  quiet  living  would  suit  him  well,  he  thought,  after 
the  London  banquets.  He  dressed  himself  laboriously  every 
morning  and  afternoon :  he  took  regular  exercise  up  and  down 
the  terrace  walk.  Thus,  with  his  cane,  his  toilet,  his  medicine- 
chest,  his  backgammon-box,  and  his  newspaper,  this  worthy 
and  worldly  philosopher  fenced  himself  against  ennui ;  and  if 
he  did  not  improve  each  shining  hour,  like  the  bees  by  the 
widow's  garden  wall.  Major  Pendennis  made  one  hour  after 
another  pass  as  he  could ;  and  rendered  his  captivity  just 
tolerable. 

Pen  sometimes  took  the  box  at  backgammon  of  a  night,  or 
would  listen  to  his  mother's  simple  music  of  summer  evenings 
—  but  he  was  very  restless  and  wretched  in  spite  of  all :  and 
has  been  known  to  be  up  before  the  early  daylight  even  :  and 
down  at  a  carp-pond  iu  Clavering  Park,  a  dreary  pool  with 
innumerable  whispering  rushes  and  green  alders,  where  a  milk- 
maid drowned  herself  in  the  Baronet's  grandfather's  time,  and 
her  ghost  was  said  to  walk  still.     But  Pen  did  not  drown  him- 


PENDENNIS.  135 

self,  as  perhaps  his  mother  fancied  might  be  his  intention.  He 
liked  to  go  and  tish  there,  and  think  and  think  at  leisure,  as 
the  float  quivered  in  the  little  eddies  of  the  pond,  and  the  fish 
flapped  about  him.  If  he  got  a  bite  he  was  excited  enough  : 
and  in  this  wa^'  occasionalh'  brought  home  carps,  tenches,  and 
eels,  which  the  Major  cooked  in  the  Continental  fashion. 

63-  this  pond,  and  under  a  tree,  which  was  his  favorite 
resoi't.  Pen  composed  a  number  of  poems  suitable  to  his  cir- 
cumstances—  over  which  verses  he  blushed  in  after  da3's, 
wondering  how  he  could  ever  have  invented  such  rubbish. 
And  as  for  the  tree,  wh^'  it  is  in  a  hollow  of  this  ver}'  tree, 
where  he  used  to  put  his  tin-box  of  ground-bait,  and  other 
fishing  commodities,  that  he  afterwards  —  but  we  are  advancing 
matters.  Sufl^ce  it  to  sa}',  he  wrote  poems  and  relieved  him- 
self very  much.  When  a  man's  grief  or  passion  is  at  this  point, 
it  may  be  loud,  but  it  is  not  very  severe.  When  a  gentleman 
is  cudgelling  his  brain  to  find  any  rhj-me  for  sorrow,  besides 
borrow  and  to-morrow,  his  woes  are  nearer  at  an  end  than  he 
thinks  for.  So  were  Pen's.  He  had  his  hot  and  cold  fits,  his 
days  of  sullenness  and  peevishness,  and  of  blank  resignation 
and  despondency,  and  occasional  mad  i^arox^-sms  of  rage  and 
longing,  in  which  fits  Rebecca  would  be  saddled  and  galloped 
fiercely  about  the  countr}',  or  into  Chatteris,  her  rider  gesticu- 
lating wildh'  on  her  back,  and  astonishing  carters  and  turn- 
pikemen  as  he  passed,  crying  out  the  name  of  the  false  one. 

Mr.  Foker  became  a  very  frequent  and  welcome  visitor  at 
Fairoaks  dui'ing  this  period,  where  his  good  spirits  and  oddities 
always  amused  the  Major  and  Pendennis,  while  they  astonished 
the  widow  and  little  Laura  not  a  little.  His  tandem  made  a 
great  sensation  in  Clavering  market-place ;  where  he  upset 
a  market  stall,  and  cut  Mrs.  Pybus's  poodle  over  the  shaven 
quarters,  and  drank  a  glass  of  raspberry  bitters  at  the  Clavering 
Arms.  All  the  society  in  the  little  place  heard  who  he  was, 
and  looked  out  his  name  in  their  Peerages.  He  was  so  young, 
and  their  books  so  old,  that  his  name  did  not  appear  in  many 
of  their  volumes  ;  and  his  mamma,  now  quite  an  antiquated 
lady,  figured  amongst  the  progeny  of  the  Earl  of  Rosherville, 
as  Lady  Agnes  Milton  still.  But  his  name,  wealth,  and  honor- 
able lineage  were  speedily-  known  about  Clavering,  where  3'ou 
ma3-  be  sure  that  poor  Pen's  little  transaction  with  the  Chatteris 
actress  was  also  prett3'  freel3-  discussed. 

Looking  at  the  little  old  town  of  Clavering  St.  Mary  from 
the  London  road  as  it  rune  bj' the  lodge  at  Fairoaks,  and  seeing 


136  PENDENNIS. 

the  rapid  and  shining  Brawl  winding  down  from  the  town  and 
skirting  the  woods  of  Clavering  Park,  and  the  ancient  church 
tower  and  peaked  roofs  of  the  houses  rising  up  amongst  trees 
and  old  walls,  behind  which  swells  a  fair  background  of  sun- 
shiny hills  that  sti-etch  from  Clavering  westwards  towards  the 
sea  —  the  place  appears  to  be  so  cheery  and  comfortable  that 
many  a  traveller's  heart  must  have  yearned  towards  it  from  the 
coach-top,  and  he  must  have  thought  that  it  was  in  such  a  calm 
friendl}'  nook  he  would  like  to  shelter  at  the  end  of  life's  struggle. 
Tom  Smith,  who  used  to  drive  the  Alacrit}'  coach,  would  often 
point  to  a  tree  near  the  river,  from  which  a  fine  view  of  the 
church  and  town  was  commanded,  and  inform  his  companion 
on  the  box  that  ' '  Artises  come  and  take  hoff  the  Church  from 
that  there  tree.  —  It  was  a  Plabby  once,  sir  :  "  —  and  indeed  a 
prettj'  view  it  is,  which  I  recommend  to  Mr.  Stanfield  or  Mr. 
Roberts,  for  their  next  tour. 

Like  Constantinople  seen  from  the  Bosphorus  ;  like  Mrs. 
Rougemont  viewed  in  her  box  from  the  opposite  side  of  the 
house  ;  like  man}'  an  object  which  we  pursue  in  Ufe,  and  admire 
before  we  have  attained  it ;  Clavering  is  rather  prettier  at  a 
distance  than  it  is  on  a  closer  acquaintance.  The  town  so 
cheerful  of  aspect  a  few  furlongs  off,  looks  very  blank  and 
dreary.  Except  on  market  da3's  there  is  nobody  in  the  streets. 
The  clack  of  a  pair  of  pattens  echoes  through  half  the  place, 
and  you  ma^^  hear  the  creaking  of  the  rusty  old  ensign  at  the 
Clavering  Arms,  without  being  disturbed  by  any  other  noise. 
There  has  not  been  a  ball  in  the  Assembly  Rooms  since  the 
Clavering  volunteers  gave  one  to  their  Colonel,  the  old  Sir 
Francis  Clavering ;  and  the  stables  which  once  held  a  great 
part  of  that  brilliant,  but  defunct  regiment,  are  now  cheerless 
and  empt}',  except  on  Thursdays,  when  the  farmers  put  up 
there,  and  their  tilted  carts  and  gigs  make  a  feeble  show  of 
liveliness  in  the  place,  or  on  Pett}'  Sessions,  when  the  magis- 
trates attend  in  what  used  to  be  the  old  card-room. 

On  the  south  side  of  the  market  rises  up  the  church,  with 
its  great  gray  towers,  of  which  the  sun  illuminates  the  dehcate 
carving;  deepening  the  shadows  of  the  huge  buttresses,  and 
gilding  the  glittering  windows,  and  flaming  vanes.  The  image 
of  the  Patroness  of  the  church  was  wrenched  out  of  the  porch 
centuries  ago  :  such  of  the  statues  of  saints  as  were  within  reach 
of  stones  and  hammer  at  that  period  of  pious  demolition,  are 
maimed  and  headless,  and  of  those  who  were  out  of  fire,  only 
Doctor  Portman  knows  the  names  and  history,  for  his  curate, 
Smirke,  is  not  much  of  an  antiquarian,  and  Mr.  Simcoe  (has- 


PENDENNIS.  137 

band  of  the  Honorable  Mrs.  Simcoe),  incumbent  and  architect 
of  the  Chapel  of  Ease  in  the  lower  town,  thinks  them  the 
abomination  of  desolation. 

The  Rector}'  is  a  stout,  broad-shouldered  brick  house,  of 
the  reign  of  Anne,  It  communicates  with  the  church  and 
market  by  different  gates,  and  stands  at  the  opening  of  Yew- 
tree  Lane,  where  the  Grammar  School  (Rex.  Wapshot) 

i"; ;  Yew-tree  Cottage  (Miss  Flather)  ;  the  butcher  s  slaughter- 
ing-house, an  old  barn  or  brew-house  of  the  Abbey  times,  and 
the  Misses  Finucane's  establishment  for  3'oung  ladies.  The 
two  schools  had  their  pews  in  the  loft  on  each  side  of  the 
organ,  until  the  Abbey  Church  getting  rather  empty,  through 
the  falling  off  of  the  congregation,  who  were  inveigled  to  the 
Heresy-shop  in  the  lower  town,  the  Doctor  induced  the  Misses 
Finucane  to  bring  their  pretty  little  flock  down  stairs  ;  and 
the  young  ladies'  bonnets  make  a  tolerable  show  in  the  rather 
vacant  aisles.  Nobod}'  is  in  the  gi'cat  pew  of  the  Clavering 
family,  except  the  statues  of  defunct  baronets  and  their  ladies : 
there  is  Sir  Poyntz  Clavering,  Knight  and  Baronet,  kneeling  in 
a  square  beard  opposite  his  wife  in  a  ruff:  a  verj-  fat  lad}-,  the 
Dame  Rebecca  Clavering,  in  alto-relievo,  is  borne  up  to  Heaven 
by  two  little  blue-veined  angels,  who  seem  to  have  a  severe 
task  —  and  so  forth.  How  well  in  after  life  Pen  remembered 
those  effigies,  and  how  often  in  youth  he  scanned  them  as  the 
Doctor  was  grumbling  the  sermon  from  the  pulpit,  and  Smirke's 
mild  head  and  forehead  curl  peered  over  the  great  prayer-book 
in  the  desk ! 

The  Fairoaks  folks  were  constant  at  the  old  church ;  their 
servants  had  a  pew,  so  had  the  Doctor's,  so  had  Wapshot's, 
and  those  of  the  Misses  Finucane's  establishment,  three  maids 
and  a  verj'  nice-looking  young  man  in  a  livery.  The  Wapshot 
family  were  numerous  and  faithful.  Glanders  and  his  children 
regularly  came  to  church :  so  did  one  of  the  apothecaries. 
Mrs.  Pybus  went,  turn  and  turn  about,  to  the  Low  Town 
church,  and  to  the  Abbey  :  the  Charity  School  and  their  families 
of  course  came  ;  "Wapshot's  boys  made  a  good  cheerful  noise, 
scuffling  with  their  feet  as  they  marched  into  church  and  up 
the  organ-loft  stair,  and  blowing  their  noses  a  good  deal  during 
the  service.  To  be  bi-ief,  the  congregation  looked  as  decent  as 
might  be  in  these  bad  times.  The  Abbey  Church  was  furnished 
with  a  magnificent  screen,  and  many  hatchments  and  heraldic 
tombstones.  The  Doctor  spent  a  great  part  of  his  income  in 
beautifying  his  darling  place  ;  he  had  endowed  it  with  a  superb 
painted  window,  bought  in  the  Netherlands,  and  an  organ  gi-and 
enough  for  a  cathedral. 


138  PENDENNIS. 

But  in  spite  of  organ  and  window,  in  consequence  of  the 
latter  very  likely,  which  had  eome  out  of  a  Papistical  place  of 
worship  and  was  blazoned  all  over  with  idolatry,  Clavering 
New  Church  prospered  scandalously  in  the  teeth  of  Orthodox}' 
and  many  of  the  Doctor's  congregation  deserted  to  Mr.  Simcoe 
and  the  honorable  woman  his  wife.  Their  efforts  had  thinned 
the  very  Ebenezer  hard  by  them,  which  building  before  Simcoe's 
advent  used  to  be  so  full,  that  you  could  see  the  backs  of  the 
congregation  squeezing  out  of  the  arched  windows  thereof. 
Mr.  Simcoe's  tracts  fluttered  into  the  doors  of  all  the  Doctor's 
cottages,  and  were  taken  as  greedily  as  honest  Mrs.  Portman's 
soup,  with  the  quaUty  of  which  the  graceless  people  found 
fault.  With  the  folks  at  the  Ribbon  Factory  situated  by  the 
weir  on  the  Brawl  side,  and  round  which  the  Low  Town  had 
grown.  Orthodox}'  could  make  no  way  at  all.  Quiet  Miss  Mira 
was  put  out  of  court  by  impetuous  Mrs.  Simcoe  and  her  female 
aides-de-camp.  Ah,  it  was  a  hard  burthen  for  the  Doctor's 
lady  to  bear,  to  behold  her  husband's  congregation  dwindling 
away ;  to  give  the  precedence  on  the  few  occasions  when  they 
met  to  a  notorious  low-churchman's  wife  who  was  the  daughter 
of  an  Irish  Peer ;  to  know  that  there  was  a  party  in  Clavering, 
their  own  town  of  Clavering,  on  which  her  Doctor  spent  a  great 
deal  more  than  his  professional  income,  who  held  him  up  to 
odium  because  he  played  a  rubber  at  whist ;  and  pronounced 
him  to  be  a  Heathen  because  he  went  to  the  play.  In  her  grief 
she  besought  him  to  give  up  the  play  and  the  rubber,  —  indeed 
they  could  scarcely  get  a  table  now,  so  dreadful  was  the  outcry 
against  the  sport,  —  but  the  Doctor  declared  that  he  would  do 
what  he  thought  right,  and  what  the  great  and  good  George 
the  Third  did  (whose  Chaplain  he  had  been)  :  and  as  for  giving 
up  whist  because  those  silly  folks  cried  out  against  it,  he  would 
play  dummy  to  the  end  of  his  days  with  his  wife  and  Mira, 
rather  than  yield  to  their  despicable  persecutions. 

Of  the  two  famiUes,  owners  of  the  Factory  (which  had 
spoiled  the  Brawl  as  a  trout-stream  and  brought  all  the  mischief 
into  the  town) ,  the  senior  partner,  Mr.  Rolt,  went  to  Ebenezer ; 
the  junior,  Mr.  Barker,  to  the  New  Church.  In  a  word,  people 
quarrelled  in  this  httle  place  a  great  deal  more  than  neighbors 
do  in  London ;  and  in  the  Book  Club,  which  the  prudent  and 
conciliating  Pendenuis  had  set  up,  and  which  ought  to  have 
been  a  neutral  territory,  they  bickered  so  much  that  nobody 
scarcely  was  ever  seen  in  the  reading-room,  except  Smirke, 
who,  though  he  kept  up  a  faint  amity  with  the  Simcoe  faction, 
had  still  a  taste  for  magazines  and  light  worldly  literature  ;  and 


PENDENNIS.  139 

old  Glanders,  whose  white  head  and  grizzly  moustache  mighi 
be  seen  at  the  window  ;  and  of  course,  little  Mrs.  Pybus,  who 
looked  at  everybody's  letters  as  the  Post  brought  them  (for  the 
Clavering  Reading  Room,  as  every  one  knows,  used  to  be  held 
at  Baker's  Library,  Loudon  Street,  formerly  Hog  Lane),  and 
read  every  advertisement  in  the  paper. 

It  may  be  imagined  how  great  a  sensation  was  created  in 
this  amiable  little  connuunit}'  when  the  news  reached  it  of  Mr. 
Pen's  love  passages  at  Chatteris.  It  was  carried  from  house 
to  house,  and  formed  the  subject  of  talk  at  high-church,  low- 
church,  and  no-church  tables  ;  it  was  canvassed  by  the  Misses 
Finucane  and  their  teachers,  and  very  likely  debated  by  the 
3'oung  ladies  in  the  dormitories,  for  what  w^e  know  ;  Wapshot's 
big  bo3'S  had  their  version  of  the  stor}'  and  e^-ed  Pen  curiously 
as  he  sat  in  his  pew  at  church,  or  raised  the  finger  of  scorn  at 
him  as  he  passed  through  Chatteris.  They  always  hated  him 
and  called  him  Lord  Pendennis,  because  he  did  not  wear  cordu- 
roys as  the}'  did,  and  rode  a  horse,  and  gave  himself  the  airs  of 
a  buck. 

And,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  it  was  Mrs.  Portman  herself 
who  was  the  chief  narrator  of  the  story  of  Pen's  loves.  What- 
ever tales  this  candid  woman  heard,  she  was  sure  to  impart 
them  to  her  neighbors  ;  and  after  she  had  been  put  into  posses- 
sion of  Pen's  secret  b}'  the  little  scandal  at  Chatteris,  poor  Doc- 
tor  Portman  knew  that  it  would  next  day  be  about  the  parish  of 
which  he  was  the  Rector.  And  so  indeed  it  was ;  the  whole 
society  there  had  the  legend  —  at  the  news-room,  at  the  milli- 
ner's, at  the  shoe-shop,  and  the  general  warehouse  at  the  corner 
of  the  market ;  at  Mrs.  Pybus's,  at  the  Glanders's,  at  the  Hon- 
orable Mrs.  Simcoe's  soiree^  at  the  Factory  ;  nay,  through  the 
mill  itself  the  tale  was  current  in  a  few  hours,  and  young  Arthur 
Pendennis's  madness  was  in  every  mouth. 

All  Doctor  Portman's  acquaintances  barked  out  upon  him 
Vkhen  he  walked  the  street  the  next  da}'.  The  poor  divine  knew 
that  his  Betsy  was  the  author  of  the  rumor,  and  groaned  in 
spirit.  Well,  well,  —  it  must  have  come  in  a  day  or  two,  and 
it  was  as  well  that  the  town  should  have  the  real  stor}'.  AVhat 
tne  Clavering  folks  thought  of  Mrs.  Pendennis  for  spoiling  her 
son,  and  of  that  precocious  3'oung  rascal  of  an  Arthur,  for  dar- 
ing to  propose  to  a  play-actress,  need  not  be  told  here.  If 
pride  exists  amongst  any  folks  in  our  country,  and  assuredly 
we  have  enough  of  it,  there  is  no  pride  more  deep-seated  than 
that  of  twopenny  old  gentlewomen  in  small  towns.  "Gracious 
goodness,"  the  cry  was,  "how  infatuated  the  mother  is  about 


140  PENDENNIS. 

that  pert  and  headstrong  boy  who  gives  himself  the  airs  of  a 
lord  on  his  blood-horse,  and  for  wlioni  our  society  is  not  good 
enough,  and  who  would  marry  an  odious  painted  actress  off  a 
bootli,  where  very  likely  he  wants  to  rant  himself.  If  dear 
good  Mr.  Pendennis  had  been  alive  this  scandal  would  never 
have  happened." 

No  more  it  would,  ver}^  likelj',  nor  should  we  have  been  oc- 
cupied in  narrating  Pen's  histor3\  It  was  true  that  he  gave 
himself  airs  to  the  Clavering  folks.  Naturally  haughty  and 
frank,  their  cackle  and  small  talk  and  small  dignities  bored  him, 
and  he  showed  a  contempt  which  he  could  not  conceal.  The 
Doctor  and  the  Curate  were  the  only  people  Pen  cared  for  in 
the  place  —  even  Mrs.  Portman  shared  in  the  general  distrust 
of  him,  and  of  his  mother,  the  widow,  who  kept  herself  aloof 
from  the  village  society,  and  was  sneered  at  accordingly,  be- 
cause she  tried,  forsooth,  to  keep  her  head  up  with  the  great 
County  families.  She,  indeed  !  Mrs.  Barker  at  the  Factory 
has  four  times  the  butcher's  meat  that  goes  up  to  Fairoaks, 
with  all  their  fine  airs. 

&c.  &c.  «fec.  :  let  the  reader  fill  up  these  details  according  to 
his  liking  and  experience  of  village  scandal.  They  will  suffice 
to  show  how  it  was  that  a  good  woman,  occupied  solely  in  doing 
her  duty  to  her  neighbor  and  her  children,  and  an  honest, 
brave  lad,  impetuous,  and  full  of  good,  and  wishing  well  to 
every  mortal  alive,  found  enemies  and  detractors  amongst  peo- 
ple to  whom  they  were  superior,  and  to  whom  they  had  never 
done  an3thiug  like  hai-m.  The  Clavering  curs  were  yelping  all 
round  the  house  of  Fairoaks,  and  delighted  to  pull  Pen  down. 

Doctor  Portman  and  Smirke  were  both  cautious  of  informing 
the  widow  of  the  constant  outbreak  of  calumny  which  was  pur- 
suing poor  Pen,  though  Glanders,  who  was  a  friend  of  the 
house,  kept  him  au  courant.  It  may  be  imagined  what  his  indig- 
nation was  :  was  there  any  man  in  the  village  whom  he  could 
call  to  account?  Presently  some  wags  began  to  chalk  up 
"  Fotheringay  for  ever  !  "  and  other  sarcastic  allusions  to  late 
transactions  at  Fairoaks  gate.  Another  brought  a  large  play- 
bill from  Chatteris,  and  wafered  it  there  one  night.  On  one 
occasion  Pen,  riding  through  the  Low  Town,  fancied  he  heard 
the  Factory  bo3's  jeer  him ;  and  finall}',  going  through  the 
Doctor's  gate  into  the  churchyard,  where  some  of  Wapshot's 
bo3^s  were  lounging,  the  biggest  of  them,  a  young  gentleman 
about  twenty  3'ears  of  age,  son  of  a  neighboring  small  Squire, 
who  lived  in  the  doubtful  capacity'  of  parlor-boarder  with  Mr. 
Wapshot,  flung  himself  into  a  theatrical  attitude  near  a  newly- 


PENDENNIS.  141 

made  grave,  and  began  repeating  Hamlet's  verses  over  Ophelia, 
\^'ith  a  hideous  leer  at  Pen. 

The  young  fellow  was  so  enraged  that  he  rushed  at  Hobnell 
Major  with  a  shriek  ver\-  much  resembling  an  oath,  cut  him 
furiously  across  the  face  with  the  riding-whip  which  he  carried, 
flung  it  awa^',  calling  upon  the  cowardly  villain  to  defend  him- 
■;elf,  and  in  another  minute  knocked  the  bewildered  young 
ruffian  into  the  grave  which  was  just  waiting  for  a  different 
lodger. 

Then,  with  his  fists  clenched,  and  his  face  quivering  with 
passion  and  indignation,  he  roared  out  to  Mr.  Hobnell's  gaping 
companions,  to  know  if  an}'  of  the  blackguards  would  come  on? 
But  they  held  back  with  a  growl,  and  retreated,  as  Doctor  Port- 
man  came  up  to  his  wicket,  and  Mr.  Hobnell,  with  his  nose  and 
lip  bleeding  piteously,  emerged  from  the  grave. 

Pen,  looking  death  and  defiance  at  the  lads,  who  retreated 
towards  their  side  of  the  churchvard,  walked  back  again  through 
the  Doctor's  wicket,  and  was  interrogated  b}'  that  gentleman. 
The  3'oung  fellow  was  so  agitated  he  could  scared}'  speak.    His 

voice  broke  into  a  sob  as  he  answered.      "The coward 

insulted  me,  su-,"  he  said  ;  and  the  Doctor  passed  over  the  oath, 
and  respected  the  emotion  of  the  honest  suffering  young  heart. 

Pendennis,  the  elder,  who,  like  a  real  man  of  the  world,  had 
a  proper  and  constant  dread  of  the  opinion  of  his  neighbor,  was 
prodigiously  annoyed  by  the  absurd  little  tempest  which  was 
blowing  in  Chatteris,  and  tossing  about  Master  Pen's  reputa- 
tion. Doctor  Portman  and  Captain  Glanders  had  to  support 
the  charges  of  the  whole  Chatteris  society  against  the  3'oung 
reprobate,  who  was  looked  upon  as  a  monster  of  crime.  Pen 
did  not  sa}'  anything  about  the  churchyard  scuffle  at  home  ;  but 
went  over  to  Baymouth,  and  took  counsel  with  his  friend  Harr}' 
Foker,  Esq.,  who  drove  over  his  drag  presently  to  the  Claver- 
ing  Arms,  whence  he  sent  Stoopid  with  a  note  to  Thomas  Hob- 
nell, Esq.,  at  the  Rev.  J.  Wapshot's,  and  a  civil  message  to 
ask  when  he  should  wait  upon  that  gentleman. 

Stoopid  brought  back  word  that  the  note  had  been  opened 
by  Mr.  Hobnell,  and  read  to  half  a  dozen  of  the  big  bo3-s,  on 
whom  it  seemed  to  make  a  great  impression  ;  and  that  after 
consulting  together  and  laughing,  Mr.  Hobnell  said  he  would 
send  an  answer  "  arter  arternoon  school,  which  the  bell  was 
a  ringing :  and  Mr.  Wapshot,  he  came  out  in  his  Master's 
gownd."  Stoopid  was  learned  in  academical  costume,  having 
attended  Mr.  Foker  at  St.  Boniface. 


142  PENDENNIS. 

Mr.  Fokor  went  out  to  see  the  curiosities  of  Clavering  meHn* 
while  ;  but  not  having  a  taste  for  architecture,  Doctor  Portman's 
fine  churcli  did  not  engage  his  attention  much,  and  he  pro- 
nounced the  tower  to  be  as  mouldy  as  an  old  Stilton  cheese. 
He  walked  down  the  street  and  looked  at  the  few  shops  there ; 
he  saw  Captain  Glanders  at  the  window  of  the  Reading-room, 
and  having  taken  a  good  stare  at  that  gentleman,  he  wagged 
his  head  at  him  in  token  of  satisfaction  ;  he  inquired  the  price 
of  meat  at  the  butcher's  with  an  air  of  the  greatest  interest, 
and  asked  "-when  was  next  killing  da}'?"  he  flattened  his 
little  nose  against  Madame  Fribsby's  v/indow  to  see  if  haply 
there  was  a  pretty  workwoman  in  her  premises  ;  but  there  was 
no  face  more  cornel}'  than  the  doll's  or  dummj^'s  wearing  the 
French  cap  in  the  window,  only  that  of  Madame  Fribsby  herself, 
dimly  \isible  in  the  parlor,  reading  a  novel.  That  object  was 
not  of  sufficient  interest  to  keep  Mr.  Foker  very  long  in  con- 
templation, and  so  having  exhausted  the  town  and  the  inn  sta- 
bles, in  which  there  were  no  cattle,  save  the  single  old  pair  of 
posters  that  earned  a  scant}^  livelihood  by  transporting  the  gen- 
trj-  round  about  to  the  county  dinners,  Mr.  Foker  was  giving 
himself  up  to  ennui  entirely,  when  a  messenger  from  Mr.  Hob- 
nell  was  at  length  announced. 

It  was  no  other  than  Mr.  Wapshot  himself,  who  came  with 
an  air  of  great  indignation,  and  holding  Pen's  missive  in  his 
hand,  asked  Mr.  Foker  "how  dared  he  bring  such  an  unchris- 
tian message  as  a  challenge  to  a  boy  of  his  school  ?  " 

In  fact  Pen  had  written  a  note  to  his  adversary  of  the  day 
before,  telling  him  that  if  after  the  chastisement  which  his  inso- 
lence richl}'  deserved,  he  felt  inclined  to  ask  the  reparation  which 
was  usually  given  amongst  gentlemen,  Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis's 
friend,  Mr.  Henry  Foker,  was  empowered  to  make  any  arrange- 
ments for  the  satisfaction  of  Mr.  Hobnell. 

"And  so  he  sent  ^oi<  with  the  answer  —  did  he,  sir?"  Mr. 
Foker  said,  surveying  the  Schoolmaster  in  his  black  coat  and 
clerical  costume. 

"If  he  had  accepted  this  wicked  challenge,  I  should  have 
flogged  him,"  Mr.  Wapshot  said,  and  gave  Mr.  Foker  a  glance 
which  seemed  to  say,  ' '  and  I  should  like  very  much  to  flog  you 
too." 

"Uncommon  kind  of  you,  sir,  I'm  sure,"  said  Pen's  emis- 
sary. ' '  I  told  my  principal  that  I  didn't  think  the  other  man 
would  fight,"  he  continued  with  a  great  air  of  dignity.  "  He 
prefers  being  flogged  to  fighting,  sir,  I  dare  say.     Ma}'  I  offer 

you  any  refreshment,   Mr. ?     I   haven't  the  advantage  of 

your  name." 


PENDENNIS.  143 

*'  My  name  is  Wapshot,  sir,  and  I  am  Master  of  the  Gram- 
mar School  of  this  town,  sir,"  cried  the  other :  "  and  I  want  no 
refreshment,  sir,  I  tliank  3'ou,  and  have  no  desire  to  make  your 
acquaintance,  sir." 

'"I  didn't  seek  yours,  sir,  I'm  sure,"  replied  Mr.  Foker. 
*'In  affairs  of  this  sort,  you  see,  I  think  it  is  a  pit}^  that  the 
clergy  should  be  called  in,  but  there's  no  accounting  for  tastes, 
sir." 

''  I  think  it's  a  pity  that  boys  should  tallc  about  committing 
murder,  sir,  as  lightly  as  you  do,"  roared  the  Schoolmaster ; 
''  and  if  I  had  j'ou  in  my  school  —  " 

"I  dare  say  you  would  teach  me  better,  sir,"  ISIr.  Foker 
said,  with  a  bow.  "  Thank  you,  sir.  I've  finished  my  educa- 
tion, sir,  and  ain't  a-going  back  to  school,  sir — when  I  do,  I'll 
remember  your  kind  offer,  sir.  John,  show  this  gentleman 
down  stairs  —  and,  of  course,  as  Mr.  Ilobnell  likes  being 
thrashed,  we  can  have  no  objection,  sir,  and  we  shall  be  ver}"- 
happ3'  to  accommodate  him,  whenever  he  conies  our  wa}'." 

And  with  this,  the  3oung  fellow  bowed  the  elder  gentleman 
out  of  the  room,  and  sat  down  and  wrote  a  note  off  to  Pen,  in 
which  he  informed  the  latter,  that  Mr.  Hobnell  was  not  disposed 
to  fight,  and  proposed  to  put  up  with  the  caning  which  Pen  had 
administered  to  him. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

WHICH   CONCLUDES   THE    FIRST   PART    OF   THIS   HISTORY. 

Pen's  conduct  in  this  business  of  course  was  soon  made 
public,  and  angered  his  friend  Doctor  Portman  not  a  little  ; 
while  it  only  amused  Major  Pendennis.  As  for  the  good  Mrs. 
Pendennis,  she  was  almost  distracted  when  she  heard  of  the 
squabble,  and  of  Pen's  unchristian  behavior.  All  sorts  of 
wretchedness,  discomfort,  crime,  annoyance,  seemed  to  come 
out  of  this  transaction  in  which  the  luckless  boy  had  engaged  : 
and  she  longed  more  than  ever  to  see  him  out  of  Chatteris  for 
a  while,  —  anywhere  removed  from  the  woman  who  had  brought 
him  into  so  much  trouble. 

Pen  when  remonstrated  with  by  this  fond  parent,  and  angrily 
rebuked  by  the  Doctor  for  his  violence  and  ferocious  intentions, 
took  the  matter  au  grand  serieux,  with  the  happy  conceit  and 
gravity  of  youth :  said  that  he  would  permit  no  man  to  insult 


144  PENDENNIS. 

him  upon  this  head  without  vindicating  his  own  honor,  and 
appeaHng,  asked  whether  he  could  have  acted  otherwise  as  a 
gentleman,  than  as  he  did  in  resenting  the  outrage  offered  to 
him,  and  in  offering  satisfaction  to  the  person  chastised? 

"  Vous  allez  trop  vite,  my  good  sir,"  said  the  uncle,  rather 
puzzled,  for  he  had  been  indoctrinating  his  nephew  with  some 
of  his  own  notions  upon  the  point  of  honor  —  old-world  notions 
savoring  of  the  camp  and  pistol  a  great  deal  more  than  our 
soberer  opinions  of  the  present  day  — ' '  between  men  of  the 
world,  I  don't  say ;  but  between  two  schoolboys,  this  sort  of 
thing  is  ridiculous,  my  dear  boy  —  perfectly  ridiculous." 

"  It  is  extremely  wicked,  and  unlike  my  son,"  said  Mrs. 
Pcndennis,  with  tears  in  her  eyes ;  and  bewUdered  with  the 
obstinacy  of  the  boy. 

Pen  kissed  her,  and  said  with  great  pomposity,  "Women, 
dear  mother,  don't  understand  these  matters  —  1  put  myself 
into  Foker's  hands  —  I  had  no  other  course  to  pursue." 

Major  Pendennis  grinned  and  shrugged  his  shoulders.  The 
young  ones  were  certainly  making  great  progress,  he  thought. 
Mrs.  Pendennis  declared  that  that  Foker  was  a  wicked  horrid 
little  wretch,  and  was  sure  that  he  would  lead  her  dear  boy  into 
mischief,  if  Pen  went  to  the  same  college  with  him.  "  I  have  a 
great  mind  not  to  let  him  go  at  all,"  she  said :  and  only  that 
she  remembered  that  the  lad's  father  had  always  destined  him 
for  the  College  in  which  he  had  had  his  own  brief  education, 
very  likely  the  fond  mother  would  have  put  a  veto  upon  his 
going  to  the  Universit}'. 

That  he  was  to  go,  and  at  the  next  October  term,  had  been 
arranged  between  all  the  authorities  who  presided  over  the  lad's 
welfare.  Foker  had  promised  to  introduce  him  to  the  right 
set ;  and  Major  Pendennis  laid  great  store  upon  Pen's  intro- 
duction into  College  life  and  society  by  this  admirable  3-oung 
gentleman.  "  Mr.  Foker  knows  the  very  best  young  men  now 
at  the  University,"  the  Major  said,  "  and  Pen  will  form  acquaint- 
ances there  who  will  be  of  the  gi-eatest  advantage  through  life 
to  him.  The  young  Marquis  of  Pliulimmon  is  there,  eldest  son 
of  the  Duke  of  St.  David's  —  Lord  Magnus  Charters  is  there, 
Lord  Runnymede's  son  ;  and  a  first  cousin  of  Mr.  Foker,  (Lady 
Runnymede,  my  dear,  was  Lady  Agatha  Milton,  you  of  course 
remember,)  Lady  Agnes  will  certainly  invite  him  to  Logwood ; 
and  far  from  being  alarmed  at  his  intimacy  with  her  son,  who 
is  a  singular  and  humorous,  but  most  prudent  and  amiable 
young  man,  to  whom,  I  am  sure,  we  are  under  every  obligation 
for  his  admirable  conduct  in  the  affair  of  the  Fotheringay  mar- 


PENDENNIS.  145 

riage,  I  look  upon  it  as  one  of  the  very  luckiest  things  which 
could  have  happened  to  Pen,  that  he  should  have  formed  an 
intimacy  with  this  most  amusing  young  gentleman." 

Helen  sighed,  she  supposed  the  Major  knew  best.  Mr. 
Foker  had  been  ver}-  kind  in  the  wretched  business  with  Miss 
Costigan,  eertainl}',  and  she  was  gi'ateful  to  him.  But  she 
could  not  feel  otherwise  than  a  dim  presentiment  of  evil ;  and 
all  these  quarrels,  and  riots,  and  worldliness,  scared  her  about 
the  fate  of  her  bo3^ 

Doctor  Portman  was  decidedlj'  of  opinion  that  Pen  should 
go  to  College.  He  hoped  the  lad  would  read,  and  have  a  mod- 
erato  indulgence  of  the  best  society  too.  He  was  of  opinion 
that  Pen  would  distinguish  himself:  Smirke  spoke  ver}^  highly 
of  his  proflcienc}' :  the  Doctor  himself  had  heard  him  construe, 
and  thought  he  acquitted  himself  remarkably  well.  That  he 
should  go  out  of  Chatteris  was  a  great  point  at  an3'  rate ;  and 
Pen,  who  was  distracted  from  his  private  grief  b}-  the  various 
rows  and  troubles  which  had  risen  rouud  about  him,  gloomily 
said  he  would  obey. 

There  were  assizes,  races,  and  the  entertainments  and  the 
flux  of  compan}'  consequent  upon  them,  at  Chatteris,  during  a 
part  of  the  months  of  August  and  September,  and  Miss  Foth- 
eringa}'  still  continued  to  act,  and  take  farewell  of  the  audiences 
at  the  Chatteris  Theatre  during  that  time.  Nobod3'  seemed  to 
be  particular!}^  affected  by  her  presence,  or  her  announced  de- 
parture, except  those  persons  whom  we  have  named  ;  nor  could 
the  polite  county  folks,  who  had  houses  in  London,  and  very 
likeh'  admired  the  Fotheringaj'  prodigiously  in  the  capital,  when 
they  had  been  taught  to  do  so  by  the  Fashion  which  set  in  in 
her  favor,  find  an^'thing  remarkable  in  the  actress  performing 
on  the  little  Chatteris  boards.  Man}'  a  genius  and  many  a 
quack,  for  that  matter,  has  met  with  a  similar  fate  before  and 
since  Miss  Costigan's  time.  This  honest  woman  meanwhile 
bore  up  against  the  public  neglect,  and  any  other  crosses  oi'' 
vexations  which  she  might  have  in  life,  with  her  usual  equa- 
nimity ;  and  ate,  drank,  acted,  slept,  with  that  regularity  and 
comfort  which  belongs  to  people  of  her  temperament.  What  a 
deal  of  grief,  care,  and  other  harmful  excitement,  does  a  health}' 
dulness  and  cheerful  insensibility  avoid  !  Nor  do  I  mean  to 
say  that  Virtue  is  not  Virtue  because  it  is  never  tempted  to  go 
astray ;  only  that  dulness  is  a  much  finer  gift  than  we  give  it 
credit  for  being,  and  that  some  people  are  very  lucky  whom 
Nature  has  endowed  with  a  good  store  of  that  great  anodyne. 

Pen  used  to  go  drearily  in  and  out  from  the  pla}'  at  Chi:tteris 

10 


146  PENDENNIS. 

during  this  season,  and  pretty  much  according  to  his  fancy. 
His  proceedings  tortured  his  mother  not  a  little,  and  her  anxietj 
would  have  led  her  often  to  interfere,  had  not  the  Major  con- 
stantly checked,  and  at  the  same  time  encouraged  her  ;  for  the 
wily  man  of  the  world  fancied  he  saw  that  a  favorable  turn  had 
occurred  in  Pen's  malady.  It  was  the  violent  efflux  of  versi- 
fication, among  other  s^-mptoms,  which  gave  Pen's  guardian 
and  ph3-sician  satisfaction.  He  might  be  heard  spouting  verses 
in  the  shrubbery  walks,  or  muttering  them  between  his  teeth 
as  he  sat  with  the  home  party  of  evenings.  One  da^^  prowling 
about  the  house  in  Pen's  absence,  the  Major  found  a  great  book 
full  of  verses  in  the  lad's  study.  They  were  in  English,  and  in 
Latin  ;  quotations  from  the  classic  authors  were  given  in  the 
scholastic  manner  in  the  foot-notes.  He  can't  be  very  bad, 
wisely  thought  the  Pall-Mall  Philosopher :  and  he  made  Pen's 
mother  remark  (not,  perhaps,  without  a  secret  feehng  of  disap- 
pointment, for  she  loved  romance  like  other  soft  women),  that 
the  young  gentleman  during  the  last  fortnight  came  home  quite 
hungry  to  dinner  at  night,  and  also  showed  a  very  decent  ap- 
petite at  the  breakfast  table  in  the  morning.  '^Gad,  I  wish  1 
could,"  said  the  Major,  thinking  ruefully  of  his  dinner  pills. 
"The  boy  begins  to  sleep  well,  depend  upon  that."  It  was 
cruel,  but  it  was  true. 

Having  no  other  soul  to  confide  in,  the  lad's  friendship  for 
the  Curate  redoubled,  or  rather,  he  was  never  tired  of  having 
Smirke  for  a  listener  on  that  one  subject.  What  is  a  lover 
without  a  confidant?  Pen  employed  Mr.  Smirke,  as  Corydon 
does  the  elm-tree,  to  cut  out  his  mistres-^'s  name  upon.  He 
made  him  echo  with  the  name  of  the  beautiful  AmarylKs. 
When  men  have  left  off  playing  the  tune,  they  do  not  care 
much  for  the  pipe  :  but  Pen  thought  he  had  a  great  friendship 
for  Smirke,  because  he  could  sigh  out  his  loves  and  griefs  into 
iiis  tutor's  ears  ;  and  Smirke  had  his  own  reasons  for  always 
being  read}-  at  the  lad's  call. 

The  poor  Curate  was  naturally  very  much  dismayed  at  the 
contemplated  departure  of  his  pupil.  When  Arthur  should  go, 
Smirke's  occupation  and  delight  would  go  too.  What  pretext 
could  he  find  for  a  daily  visit  to  Fairoaks,  and  that  kind  word 
or  glance  from  the  lady  there,  which  v/as  as  necessary  to  the 
Curate  as  the  frugal  dinner  which  Madame  Fribsby  served  him  ? 
Arthur  gone,  he  would  only  be  allowed  to  make  visits  hke  any 
other  acquaintance  :  little  Laura  could  not  accommodate  him 
by  learning  the  Catechism  more  than  once  a  week :  he  had 
curled  himself  like  ivy  round  Fairoaks  :  he  pined  at  the  thought 


PEKDENNIS.  147 

that  he  must  lose  his  hold  of  the  place.  Should  he  speak  his 
mind  and  go  down  on  his  knees  to  the  widow?  He  thought 
over  any  indications  in  her  behavior  which  flattered  his  hopes. 
She  had  praised  his  sermon  three  weeks  before  :  she  had  thanked 
him  exceeding!}'  for  his  present  of  a  melon,  for  a  small  dinner 
party  which  Mrs.  Pendennis  gave  :  she  said  she  should  always 
be  grateful  to  him  for  his  kindness  to  Arthur:  and  when  he 
declared  that  there  were  no  bounds  to  his  love  and  affection  for 
that  dear  bo^',  she  had  certainly  replied  in  a  romantic  manner, 
indicating  her  own  strong  gratitude  and  regard  to  all  her  son's 
friends.  Should  he  speak  out? — or  should  he  delay?  If  he 
spoke  and  she  refused  him,  it  was  awful  to  think  that  the  gate 
of  Fairoaks  might  be  shut  upon  him  for  ever  —  and  within  that 
door  lay  all  the  world  for  Mr.  Smirke. 

Thus,  O  friendl}'  readers,  we  see  how  every  man  in  the 
world  has  his  own  private  griefs  and  business,  by  which  he  is 
more  cast  down  or  occupied  than  b}'  the  affairs  or  sorrows  of 
any  other  person.  While  Mrs.  Pendennis  is  disquieting  herself 
about  losing  her  son,  and  that  anxious  hold  she  has  had  of  him, 
as  long  as  he  has  remained  in  the  mother's  nest,  whence  he  is 
about  to  take  flight  iiito  the  great  world  beyond  —  while  the 
Major's  great  soul  chafes  and  frets,  inwardly  vexed  as  he  thinks 
what  great  parties  are  going  on  in  London,  and  that  he  might 
be  sunning  himself  in  the  glances  of  Dukes  and  Duchesses,  but 
for  those  cursed  affairs  which  keep  him  in  a  wretched  little 
country  hole  —  while  Pen  is  tossing  between  his  passion  and  a 
more  agreeable  sensation,  unacknowledged  3'et,  but  swaying 
him  considerably,  namely,  his  longing  to  see  the  world  —  Mr. 
Smirke  has  a  private  care  watching  at  his  bedside,  and  sitting 
behind  him  on  his  pon}' ;  and  is  no  more  satisfied  than  the  rest 
of  us.  How  lonel}'  we  are  in  the  world  !  how  selfish  and  secret, 
everybody  !  You  and  your  wife  have  pressed  the  same  pillow 
for  fort}'  years  and  fanc}'^  yourselves  united.  —  Psha,  does  she 
cry  out  when  you  have  the  gout,  or  do  you  lie  awake  when  she 
has  the  tooth-ache?  Your  artless  daughter,  seemingly  all  inno- 
cence and  devoted  to  her  mamma  and  her  piano-lesson,  is  think- 
ing of  neither,  but  of  the  young  Lieutenant  with  whom  she 
danced  at  the  last  ball  —  tlie  honest  frank  boy  just  returned 
from  school  is  secretl}'  speculating  upon  the  money  you  will 
give  him,  and  the  debts  he  owes  the  tart-man.  The  old  grand- 
mother crooning  in  the  corner  and  bound  to  another  world 
within  a  few  months,  has  some  business  or  cares  which  are 
quite  private  and  her  own  —  very  likel}"  she  is  thinking  of  fifty 
years  back,  and  that  night  when  she  made  such  an  impressiou. 


148  PENDENNIS. 

and  danced  a  cotillon  with  the  Captain  before  your  father  pro- 
posed for  her :  or,  what  a  sill}'  little  over- rated  creature  youi 
wife  is,  and  how  absurdl}'  3'ou  are  infatuated  about  her  —  and, 
as  for  your  wife  —  O  philosophic  reader,  answer  and  say,  — 
Do  you  tell  her  all?  Ah,  sir,  —  a  distinct  universe  walks  about 
under  yoxiT  hat  and  under  mine  —  all  things  in  nature  are  dif- 
ferent to  each  —  the  woman  we  look  at  has  not  the  same  fea- 
tures, the  dish  we  eat  from  has  not  the  same  taste  to  the  one 
and  the  other  —  you  and  I  ai'e  but  a  pair  of  infinite  isolations, 
with  some  fellow-islands  a  little  more  or  less  near  to  us.  Let 
us  return,  however,  to  the  solitary  Smirke. 

Smirke  had  one  confidant  for  his  passion  —  that  most  injudi- 
cious woman,  Madame  Fribsby.  How  she  became  Madame 
Fribsb}-,  nobod}'  knows  :  she  had  left  Clavering  to  go  to  a 
milliner's  in  London  as  Miss  Fribsby  —  she  pretended  that  she 
had  got  the  rank  in  Paris  during  her  residence  in  that  city. 
But  how  could  the  French  king,  were  he  ever  so  much  dis- 
posed, give  her  any  such  title?  We  shall  not  inquire  into  this 
myster}',  however.  Suffice  to  say,  she  went  away  from  home 
a  bouncing  young  lass  ;  she  returned  a  rather  elderlj'  character, 
with  a  Madonna  front  and  a  melanchol}'  countenance  —  bought 
the  late  Mrs.  Harbottle's  business  for  a  song  —  took  her  elderly 
mother  to  live  with  her ;  was  ver}'  good  to  the  poor,  was  con- 
stant at  church,  and  had  the  best  of  characters.  But  there 
was  no  one  in  all  Clavering,  not  Mrs.  Portman  herself,  who 
read  so  many  novels  as  Madame  Fribsb}".  She  had  plenty-  of 
time  for  this  amusement,  for,  in  truth,  very  few  people  besides 
the  folks  at  the  Rectory  and  Fah-oaks  emplo3'ed  her ;  and  by  a 
perpetual  perusal  of  such  works  (which  were  by  no  means  so 
moral  or  edifying  in  the  daj's  of  which  we  write,  as  the}'  are  at 
present),  she  had  got  to  be  so  absurdly  sentimental,  that  in 
her  e^-es  life  was  nothing  but  an  immense  love-match  ;  and  she 
never  could  see  two  people  together,  but  she  fancied  the}'  were 
dying  for  one  another. 

On  the  day  after  Mrs.  Pendennis's  visit  to  the  Curate, 
which  we  have  recorded  many  pages  back,  Madame  Fribsby 
settled  in  her  mind  that  Mr.  Smirke  must  be  in  love  with  the 
widow,  and  did  everything  in  her  power  to  encourage  this 
passion  on  both  sides.  Mrs.  Pendennis  she  very  seldom  saw, 
indeed,  except  in  public,  and  in  her  pew  at  church.  That 
lady  had  very  little  need  of  millinery,  or  made  most  of  her  own 
dresses  and  caps  ;  but  on  the  rare  occasions  when  Madame 
Fribsby  received  visits  from  Mrs.  Pendennis,  or  paid  her 
respects  at  P^airoaks,  she  never  failed  to  entertain  the  widow 


PENDENNIS.  149 

with  praises  of  the  Curate,  pointing  out  what  an  angelical  man 
he  was,  how  gentle,  how  studious,  how  lonely  ;  and  she  would 
wonder  that  no  lad}'  would  take  pit}'  upon  him. 

Helen  laughed  at  these  sentimental  remarks,  and  wondered 
that  Madame  herself  did  not  compassionate  her  lodger,  and 
console  him.  Madame  Fribsb}'  shook  her  Madonna  front. 
"  Mong  cure  a  boco  sonffare"  she  said,  laying  her  hand  on  the 
part  she  designated  as  her  cure.  "  11  est  more  en  Espang^ 
Madame"  she  said  with  a  sigh.  She  was  proud  of  her  intimacy 
with  the  French  language,  and  spoke  it  with  more  volubility 
than  correctness.  Mrs.  Pendennis  did  not  care  to  penetrate 
the  secrets  of  this  wounded  heart :  except  to  her  few  intimates 
she  was  a  reserved,  and  it  may  be  a  very  proud  woman  ;  she 
looked  upon  her  son's  tutor  niereh'  as  an  attendant  on  that 
3'oung  Prince,  to  be  treated  with  respect  as  a  clergyman  cer- 
tainly, but  with  proper  dignit}'  as  a  dependant  on  the  house  of 
Pendennis.  Nor  were  Madame's  constant  allusions  to  the 
Curate  particularl}^  agreeable  to  her.  It  required  a  very  in- 
genious sentimental  turn  indeed  to  find  out  that  the  widow  had 
a  secret  regard  for  Mr.  Smirke,  to  which  pernicious  error  how- 
ever Madame  Fribsby  persisted  in  holding. 

Her  lodger  was  ver}'  much  more  willing  to  talk  on  this 
subject  with  his  soft-hearted  landlady.  Ever}'  time  after  that 
she  praised  the  Curate  to  Mrs.  Pendennis,  she  came  away  from 
the  latter  with  the  notion  that  the  widow  herself  had  been 
praising  him.  '•'  Eire  soul  au  monde  est  bien  ouneeyong^"  she 
would  say,  glancing  up  at  a  print  of  a  French  carbineer  in  a 
green  coat  and  brass  cuirass  which  decorated  her  apartment  — 
"  Depend  upon  it  when  Master  Pendennis  goes  to  college,  his 
Ma  will  find  herself  very  lonely.  She  is  quite  young  yet.  —  You 
wouldn't  suppose  her  to  be  five-and- twenty.  Monsieur  le  Cury^ 
S07ig  cure  est  touchy — fongsuis  sure  — Je  conny  cela  biang  —  Ally 
Monsieur  Smirke." 

He  softly  blushed ;  he  sighed ;  he  hoped ;  he  feared ;  he 
doubted ;  he  sometimes  yielded  to  the  delightful  idea  —  his 
pleasure  was  to  sit  in  Madame  Fribsby's  apartment,  and  talk 
upon  the  subject,  where,  as  the  greater  part  of  the  conversation 
was  carried  on  in  French  by  the  Milliner,  and  her  old  mother 
was  deaf,  that  retired  old  individual  (who  had  once  been  a 
housekeeper,  wife  and  widow  of  a  butler  in  the  Clavering 
family),  could  understand  scarce  one  syllable  of  their  talk. 

When  Major  Pendennis  announced  to  his  nephew's  tutor 
that  the  young  fellow  would  go  to  College  in  October,  and  that 
Mr.  Smirke's  valuable  services  would  no  longer  be  needful  to 


150  PENDENNIS. 

his  pupil,  for  which  services  the  Major,  who  spoke  as  grandly 
as  a  lord,  professed  himself  exceedingly  gi-ateful,  and  besought 
Mr.  Smirke  to  command  his  interest  in  any  way  —  the  Curate 
felt  that  the  critical  moment  was  come  for  him,  and  was  racked 
and  tortured  by  those  severe  pangs  which  the  occasion  war- 
ranted. 

And  now  that  Arthur  was  going  away,  Helen's  heart  was 
rather  softened  towards  the  Curate,  from  whom,  perhaps  divin- 
ing his  intentions,  she  had  shrunk  hitherto :  she  bethought  her 
how  ver}^  polite  Mr.  Smirke  had  been  ;  how  he  had  gone  on 
messages  for  her  ;  how  he  had  brought  books  and  copied  music  ; 
how  he  had  taught  Laura  so  many  things,  and  given  her  so 
many  kind  presents.  Her  heart  smote  her  on  account  of  her 
ingratitude  towards  the  Curate  :  —  so  much  so  that  one  after- 
noon when  he  came  down  from  stud}'  with  Pen,  and  was  hanker- 
ing about  the  hall  previous  to  his  departure,  she  went  out  and 
shook  hands  with  him  with  rather  a  blushing  face,  and  begged 
him  to  come  into  her  drawing-room,  where  she  said  they  now 
never  saw  him.  And  as  there  was  to  be  rather  a  good  dinner 
that  day,  she  invited  Mr.  Smirke  to  partake  of  it ;  and  we  may 
be  sure  that  he  was  too  happ}'  to  accept  such  a  delightful 
summons. 

Helen  was  exceedingly  kind  and  gracious  to  Mr.  Smirke 
during  dinner,  redoubhng  her  attentions,  perhaps  because  Major 
Pendennis  was  very  high  and  reserved  with  his  nephew's  tutor. 
When  Pendennis  asked  Smirke  to  drink  wine,  he  addressed  him 
as  if  he  was  a  Sovereign  speaking  to  a  petty  retainer,  in  a  man- 
ner so  condescending,  that  even  Pen  laughed  at  it,  although 
quite  ready,  for  his  part,  to  be  as  conceited  as  most  young 
men  are. 

But  Smirke  did  not  care  for  the  impertinences  of  the  Major 
so  long  as  he  had  his  hostess's  kind  behavior ;  and  he  passed  a 
delightful  time  by  her  side  at  table,  exerting  all  his  powers  of 
conversation  to  please  her,  talking  in  a  manner  both  clerical 
and  worldly,  about  the  fancy  Bazaar,  and  the  Great  Missionary 
Meeting,  about  the  last  new  novel,  and  the  Bishop's  excellent 
sermon — about  the  fashionable  parties  in  London,  an  account 
of  which  he  read  in  the  newspapers — in  fine,  he  neglected 
no  art,  by  which  a  College  divine  who  has  both  sprightly  and 
serious  talents,  a  taste  for  the  genteel,  an  irreproachable  con- 
duct, and  a  susceptible  heart,  will  try  and  make  himself  agreea- 
ble to  the  person  on  whom  he  has  fixed  his  affections. 

Major  Pendennis  came  yawning  out  of  the  dining-room  verjr 
soon  after  his  sister  and  little  Laura  had  left  the  apartment. 


PENDENNIS.  151 

Now  Arthur,  flushed  with  a  good  deal  of  pride  at  the  privi- 
lege of  having  the  keys  of  the  cellar,  and  remembering  that  a 
very  few  more  dinners  would  probably  take  place  which  he  and 
his  dear  friend  Sniirke  could  share,  had  brought  up  a  liberal 
supply  of  claret  for  the  company's  drinking,  and  when  the  elders 
with  little  Laura  left  him,  he  and  the  Curate  began  to  pass  the 
wine  very  freely. 

One  bottle  speedil}^  yielded  up  the  ghost,  another  shed  more 
than  half  its  blood,  before  the  two  topers  had  been  much  more 
than  half  an  hour  together  —  Pen,  with  a  hollow  laugh  and 
voice,  had  drunk  off  one  bumper  to  the  falsehood  of  women, 
and  had  said  sardonicallj",  that  wine  at  an}'  rate  was  a  mistress 
who  never  deceived,  and  was  sure  to  give  a  man  a  welcome. 

Smirke  gentl}'  said  that  he  knew  for  his  part  some  women 
who  were  all  truth  and  tenderness  ;  and  casting  up  his  eyes 
towards  the  ceiling,  and  heaving  a  sigh  as  if  evoking  some 
being  dear  and  unmentionable,  he  took  up  his  glass  and  drained 
it,  and  the  rosy  liquor  began  to  suffuse  his  face. 

Pen  trolled  over  some  verses  he  had  been  making  that  morn- 
ing, in  which  he  informed  himself  that  the  woman  who  had 
slighted  his  passion  could  not  be  worth}'  to  win  it :  that  he  was 
awaking  from  love's  mad  fever,  and,  of  course,  under  these 
circumstances,  proceeded  to  leave  her,  and  to  quit  a  heartless 
deceiver :  that  a  name  which  had  one  day  been  famous  in  the 
land,  might  again  be  heard  in  it :  and,  that  though  he  never 
should  be  the  happy  and  careless  boy  he  was  but  a  few  months 
since,  or  his  heart  be  what  it  had  been  ere  passion  had  filled  it 
and  grief  had  wellnigh  killed  it ;  that  though  to  him  personally 
death  was  as  welcome  as  life,  and  that  he  would  not  hesitate  to 
part  with  the  latter,  but  for  the  love  of  one  kind  being  whose 
happiness  depended  on  his  own,  —  yet  he  hoped  to  show  he 
was  a  man  worthy  of  his  race,  and  that  one  day  the  false  one 
should  be  brought  to  know  how  great  was  the  treasure  and  noble 
the  heart  which  she  had  flung  away. 

Pen,  we  say,  who  was  a  very  excitable  person,  rolled  out 
these  verses  \n  his  rich  sweet  voice,  which  trembled  with 
emotion  whilst  our  3'oung  poet  spoke.  He  had  a  trick  of  blush- 
ing when  in  this  excited  state,  and  his  large  and  honest  gra}' 
»^yes  also  exhibited  proofs  of  a  sensibilit}'  so  genuine,  heart}^, 
^nd  manly,  that  Miss  Costigan,  if  she  had  a  heart,  must  needs 
Aiave  softened  toward  hira  ;  and  very  likel}'  she  was,  as  he  said, 
altogether  unworth}-  of  the  affection  which  he  lavished  upon  her. 

The  sentimental  Smirke  was  caught  by  the  emotion  which 
agitated  his  3'oung  friend.     He  grasped  Pen's  hand  over  the 


152  PENDENNiS. 

dessert  dishes  and  wine-glasses.  He  said  the  verses  were 
beautiful :  that  Pen  was  a  poet,  a  gveat  poet,  and  likely  by 
Heaven's  permission  to  run  a  great  career  in  the  world.  ' '  Go 
on  and  prosper,  dear  Arthur,"  he  cried:  "  the  wounds  under 
which  at  present  you  suffer  are  only  temporary,  and  the  very 
grief  you  endure  will  cleanse  and  strengthen  your  heart.  I 
have  alwa3's  prophesied  the  greatest  and  brightest  things  of 
you,  as  soon  as  30U  have  corrected  some  failings  and  weak- 
nesses of  character,  which  at  present  belong  to  you.  But  you 
will  get  over  these,  my  boj',  you  will  get  over  these  ;  and  when 
you  are  famous  and  celebrated,  as  I  know  3'ou  will  be,  will  3'ou 
remember  3'our  old  tutor  and  the  happ3'  earlv  da3's  of  your 
youth?" 

Pen  swore  he  would :  with  another  shake  of  the  hand  across 
the  glasses  and  apricots.  "  I  shall  never  forget  how  kind  you 
have  been  to  me,  Smirke,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  know  what  1 
should  have  done  without  3^ou.    'You  are  my  best  friend." 

"Ami  really,  Arthur?"  said  Smirke,  looking  through  his 
spectacles  ;  and  his  heart  began  to  beat  so  that  he  thought  Pen 
must  almost  hear  it  throbbing. 

"  M3'  best  friend,  m3-  friend /or  ever"  Pen  said.  "God 
bless  3'ou,  old  bo3',"  and  he  drank  up  the  last  glass  of  the 
second  bottle  of  the  famous  wine  which  his  father  had  laid  in, 
which  his  uncle  had  bought,  which  Lord  Levant  had  imported, 
and  which  now,  like  a  slave  indifferent,  was  ministering  pleasure 
to  its  present  owner,  and  giving  its  30ung  master  delectation. 

"  We'll  have  another  bottle,  old  boy,"  Pen  said,  "  by  Jove 
we  will.  Hurra3' !  —  claret  goes  for  nothing.  M3'  uncle  was 
telling  me  that  he  saw  Sheridan  drink  five  bottles  at  Brookes's, 
besides  a  bottle  of  Maraschino.  This  is  some  of  the  finest  wine 
in  England,  he  sa3^s.  So  it  is  by  Jove.  There's  nothing  like 
it.  Nunc  vino  pellile  curas  —  eras  ingens  iterabimus  mq  —  fill  3'our 
glass.  Old  Smirke,  a  hogshead  of  it  won't  do  you  an3'  harm." 
And  Mr.  Pen  began  to  sing  the  drinking  song  out  of  "  Der 
Freischiitz."  The  dining-room  windows  were  open,  and  his 
mother  was  softl3'  pacing  on  the  lawn  outside,  while  little  Laura 
was  looking  at  the  sunset.  The  sweet  fresh  notes  of  the  bo3''s 
voice  come  to  the  widow.  It  cheered  her  kind  heart  to  hear 
him  sing. 

"  You  —  3'ou  are  taking  too  much  wine,  Arthur,"  Mr.  Smirke 
said  softly —  "  3'ou  are  exciting  3'ourself." 

"No,"  said  Pen,  "  women  give  headaches,  but  this  don't. 
Fill  your  glass,  old  fellow,  and  let's  drink  —  I  say,  Smirke,  my 
bo3"  —  let's  drink  to  her  —  your  her,  I  mean,  not  mine,  for 


PENDENNIS.  153 

whom  I  swear  I'll  care  no  more  —  no,  not  a  penny  —  no,  not  a 
fig —  no,  not  a  glass  of  wine.  Tell  us  about  the  lady,  Smirke  ; 
I've  often  seen  ^-ou  sighing  about  her." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Smirke  —  and  his  beautiful  cambric  shirt-front 
and  glistening  studs  heaved  with  the  emotion  which  agitated 
his  gentle  and  suffering  bosom. 

"Oh  —  what  a  sigh!"  Pen  cried,  growing  very  hilarious: 
''  fill,  my  bo}',  and  drink  the  toast,  you  can't  refuse  a  toast,  no 
gentleman  refuses  a  toast.  Here's  her  health,  and  good  luck 
to  3on,  and  may  she  soon  be  Mrs.  Smirke." 

"•Do  30U  say  so?"  Smirke  said,  all  of  a  tremble.  "Do 
you  realh'  sslj  so,  Arthur  ?  " 

"  Sa}'  so;  of  course,  I  say  so.  Down  with  it.  Here's 
Mrs.  Smirke's  good  health  :  Hip,  hip,  hurra}- !  " 

Smirke  convulsively  gulped  down  his  glass  of  wine,  and 
Pen  waved  his  over  his  head,  cheering  so  as  to  make  his 
mother  and  Laura  wonder  on  the  lawn,  and  his  uncle,  who  was 
dozing  over  the  paper  in  the  drawing-room,  start,  and  say  to 
himself,  "that  boy's  drinking  too  much."  Smirke  put  down 
the  glass. 

"I  accept  the  omen,"  gasped  out  the  blushing  Curate. 
"  Oh,  my  dear  Arthur,  you  —  you  know  her  —  " 

"  ^\Tiat  —  Mira  Portman?  I  wish  you  joy:  she's  got  a 
dev'lish  large  waist ;  but  I  wish  3-ou  joy,  old  fellow." 

"  O  Arthur !  "  groaned  the  Curate  again,  and  nodded  his 
head,  speechless. 

"Beg  your  pardon  —  sorry  I  offended  you  —  but  she  has 
got  a  large  waist,  you  l;now  —  devilish  large  waist,"  Pen  con- 
tinued —  the  third  bottle  evidenth'  beginning  to  act  upon  the 
j'oung  gentleman. 

"It's  not  Miss  Portman,"  the  other  said,  in  a  voice  of 
agony. 

"Is  it  anybody  at  Chatteris  or  at  Clapham?  Somebody 
here  ?  No  —  it  ain't  old  Pybus  ?  it  can't  be  Miss  Rolt  at  the 
Factor}-  —  she's  onl}-  fourteen." 

"  It's  somebody  rather  older  than  I  am,  Pen,"  the  Curate 
cried,  looking  up  at  his  friend,  and  then  guiltily  casting  his 
eyes  down  into  his  plate. 

Pen  burst  out  laughing.  "  It's  Madame  Fribsby,  by  Jove, 
it's  Madame  Fribsby.     Madame  Frib.  by  the  immortal  Gods  !  " 

The  Curate  could  contain  no  more.  "O  Pen,"  he  cried, 
"how  can  you  suppose  that  an}-  of  those — of  those  more 
than  ordinar}'  beings  j-ou  have  named  —  could  have  an  influ- 
ence upon  this  heart,  when  I  have  been  dail}-  in  the  habit  of 

6 


154  PENDENNIS. 

contemplating  perfection !  I  may  be  insane,  I  may  be  madly 
ambitious,  I  may  be  presumptuous  —  but  for  two  years  my  heart 
has  been  filled  by  one  image,  and  has  known  no  other  idol. 
Haven't  I  loved  30U  as  a  son,  Arthur? — say,  hasn't  Charles 
Smirke  loved  3'ou  as  a  son  ?  " 

"Yes,  old  bo}-,  you've  been  verj' good  to  me,"  Pen  said, 
whose  liking,  however,  for  his  tutor  was  not  by  anj^  means  of 
the  tihal  kind. 

"  M}-  means,"  rushed  on  Smirke,  "  are  at  present  limited,  I 
own,  and  my  mother  is  not  so  liberal  as  might  be  desired  ;  but 
what  she  has  will  be  mine  at  her  death.  Were  she  to  hear  of 
my  marrying  a  lady  of  rank  and  good  fortune,  m}-  mother 
would  be  liberal,  I  am  sure  she  would  be  liberal.  Whatever  I 
have  or  subsequently  inherit  —  and  it's  five  hundred  a-3'ear  at 
the  very  least  —  would  be  settled  upon  her,  and  —  and  —  and 
you  at  m}''  death  —  that  is  —  " 

' '  AVhat  the  deuce  do  3'ou  mean  ?  —  and  what  have  I  to  do 
with  your  money  ?  "  cried  out  Pen,  in  a  puzzle. 

'  *  Arthur,  Arthur  !  "  exclaimed  the  other  wildly  ;  ' '  You  say 
I  am  your  dearest  friend  —  Let  me  be  more.  Oh,  can't  3'ou 
see  that  the  angelic  being  I  love  —  the  2:)urest,  the  best  of  women 
—  is  no  other  than  your  dear,  dear  angel  of  a  —  mother." 

"  My  mother  !  "  cried  out  Arthur,  jumping  up  and  sober  in 
a  minute.  "Pooh!  damn  it,  Smirke,  j'ou  must  be  mad — • 
she's  seven  or  eight  years  older  than  you  are." 

"  Did  yoii  find  that  an}^  objection?"  cried  Smirke,  piteously, 
and  alluding,  of  course,  to  the  elderl}^  subject  of  Pen's  own 
passion . 

The  lad  felt  the  hint,  and  blushed  quite  red.  "  The  cases 
are  not  similar,  Smirke,"  he  said,  "  and  the  allusion  might  have 
been  spared.  A  man  may  forget  his  own  rank  and  elevate 
any  woman  to  it ;  but  allow  me  to  say  our  positions  are  verj' 
different." 

"  How  do  3'Ou  mean,  dear  Arthur?"  the  Curate  interposed 
sadl}',  cowering  as  he  felt  that  his  sentence  was  about  to  be 
read. 

"  Mean?"  said  Arthur.  "  I  mean  what  I  say.  My  tutor, 
I  say  my  tutor ^  has  no  right  to  ask  a  lady  of  my  mother's  rank 
of  life  to  marry  him.  It's  a  breach  of  confidence.  I  sa^^  it's 
a  liberty  3'OU  take,  Smirke  —  it's  a  libert}'.     Mean,  indeed  !  " 

"  O  Arthur  !  "  the  Curate  began  to  cr}'  with  clasped  hands, 
and  a  scared  face,  but  Arthur  gave  another  stamp  with  his  foot, 
and  began  to  pull  at  the  bell.  "•  Don't  let's  have  any  more  of 
this.     We'll  have  come  coffee,  if  you  please,"  he  said  with  a 


PENDENNIS.  155 

majestic  air :  and  the  old  butler  entering  at  the  summons, 
Arthm*  bade  him  to  serve  that  refreshment. 

John  said  he  had  just  carried  coffee  into  the  drawing-room, 
where  his  uncle  was  asking  for  Master  Arthur,  and  the  old 
man  gave  a  glance  of  wonder  at  the  three  empty  claret-bottles. 
Smirke  said  he  thought  he'd  —  he'd  rather  not  go  into  the 
drawing-room,  on  which  Arthur  haughtily  said,  "As  ^-ou 
please,"  and  called  for  Mr.  Smirke's  horse  to  be  brought  round. 
The  poor  fellow  said  he  knew  the  way  to  the  stable  and  would 
get  his  pony  himself,  and  he  went  into  the  hall  and  sadly  put 
on  his  coat  and  hat. 

Pen  followed  him  out  uncovered.  Helen  w^as  still  walking 
up  and  down  the  soft  lawn  as  the  sun  was  setting,  and  the 
Curate  took  off  his  hat  and  bowed  b}-  wa}-  of  farewell,  and 
passed  on  to  the  door  leading  to  the  stable  court  by  which  the 
pair  disappeared.  Smirke  knew  the  wa}-  to  the  stable  as  he 
said,  well  enough.  He  fumbled  at  the  girths  of  the  saddle, 
which  Pen  fastened  for  him,  and  put  on  the  bridle  and  led  the 
pony  into  the  yard.  The  boy  was  touched  b}-  the  grief  whicli 
appeared  in  the  other's  face  as  he  mounted.  Pen  held  out  his 
hand,  and  Smirke  wrung  it  silentl}', 

"  I  say,  Smirke,"  he  said  in  an  agitated  voice,  "  forgive  me 
if  I  have  said  anything  harsh  —  for  you  have  alwaj^s  been  very, 
ver}'  kind  to  me.  But  it  can't  be,  old  fellow,  it  can't  be.  Be  a 
man.     God  bless  you. 

Smirke  nodded  his  head  silently,  and  rode  out  of  the  lodge 
gate  :  and  Pen  looked  after  him  for  a  couple  of  minutes,  initil 
he  disappeared  down  the  road,  and  the  clatter  of  the  pon3''s 
hoofs  died  awa}'.  Helen  was  still  lingering  on  the  lawn  wait- 
ing until  the  boy  came  back  —  she  put  his  hair  off  his  fore- 
head and  kissed  it  fondly.  She  was  afraid  he  had  been 
drinking  too  much  wine.  Why  had  Mr.  Smirke  gone  away 
without  an}'  tea? 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  kind  humor  beaming  in  his  eyes  ; 
"Smirke  is  unwell,"  he  said  with  a  laugh.  For  a  long  while 
Helen  had  not  seen  the  boy  looking  so  cheerful.  He  put  his 
arm  round  her  waist,  and  wallced  her  up  and  down  the  walk 
in  front  of  the  house.  Laura  began  to  drub  on  the  drawing- 
room  window  and  nod  and  laugh  from  it.  ' '  Come  along  3'ou 
two  people,"  cried  out  Major  Pendennis,  "  3-our  coffee  is  get- 
ting quite  cold. 

When  Laura  was  gone  to  bed.  Pen,  who  was  big  with  his 
secret,  burst  out  with  it,  and  described  the  dismal  but  ludicrous 
scene  which  had  occurred-    Helen  heard  of  it  with  man}'  blushes. 


156  PENDENNIS. 

which  became  her  pale  face  very  well,  and  a  perplexity  which 
Arthur  roguishly  enjoyed. 

"  Confound  the  fellow's  impudence,"  Major  Pendennis  said, 
as  he  took  his  candle,  "where  will  the  assurance  of  these  people 
stop?  "  Pen  and  his  mother  had  a  long  taXk  that  night,  full  of 
love,  confidence,  and  laughter,  and  the  bo}'  somehow  slept  more 
soundly  and  woke  up  more  easily  than  he  had  done  for  many 
months  before.  \ 

Before  the  great  Mr.  Dolphin  quitted  Chatteris,  he  not  only 
made  an  advantageous  engagement  with  Miss  Fotheringa}',  but 
he  liberalh^  left  with  her  a  sum  of  money  to  pay  off  any  debts 
which  the  little  famil}'  might  have  contracted  during  their  sta}' 
in  the  place,  and  which,  mainl}-  through  the  lady's  own  economy 
and  management,  were  not  considerable.  The  small  account 
with  the  spirit  merchant,  which  Major  Pendennis  had  settled, 
was  the  chief  of  Captain  Costigan's  debts,  and  though  the  Cap- 
tain at  one  time  talked  about  repaying  every  farthing  of  the 
money,  it  never  appears  that  he  executed  his  menace,  nor  did 
the  laws  of  honor  in  the  least  call  upon  him  to  accomplish  that 
threat. 

When  Miss  Costigan  had  seen  all  the  outstanding  bills  paid 
to  the  uttermost  shilling,  she  handed  over  the  balance  to  her 
father,  who  broke  out  into  hospitalities  to  all  his  friends,  gave 
the  little  Creeds  more  apples  and  gingerbread  than  he  had  ever 
l^estowed  upon  them,  so  that  the  widow  Creed  ever  after  held 
the  memor}'  of  her  lodger  in  veneration,  and  the  3'oung  ones 
wept  bitterly  when  he  went  awa}" ;  and  in  a  word  managed  the 
money  so  cleverly  that  it  was  entirely  expended  before  many 
days,  and  he  was  compelled  to  draw  upon  Mr.  Dolphin  for 
a  sum  to  pay  for  travelling  expenses  when  the  time  of  their 
departure  arrived. 

There  was  held  at  an  inn  in  that  county  town  a  weekl}' 
meeting  of  a  festive,  almost  a  riotous  character,  of  a  society  of 
gentlemen  who  called  themselves  the  Buccaneers.  Some  of 
the  choice  spirits  of  Chatteris  belonged  to  tliis  cheerful  Club. 
Graves,  the  apothecary  (than  whom  a  better  fellow  never  put  a 
pipe  in  his  mouth  and  smoked  it).  Smart,  the  talented  and 
humorous  portrait-painter  of  High  Street,  Croker,  an  excellent 
auctioneer,  and  the  uncompromising  Hicks,  the  able  Editor  for 
twenty-three  j^ears  of  the  County  Chronicle  and  Chatteris  Cham- 
pion, were  amongst  the  crew  of  the  Buccaneers,  whom  also 
Biugley,  the  manager,  liked  to  join  of  a  Saturday  evening, 
whenever  he  received  permission  from  his  lady. 


PENDENNIS.  157 

Costigan  had  been  also  an  occasional  Buccaneer.  But  a 
want  of  punctualit}'  of  payments  had  of  late  somewhat  excluded 
hira  from  the  Societ}',  where  he  was  subject  to  disagreeable  re- 
marks from  the  landlord,  who  said  that  a  Buccaneer  who  didn't 
pa}-  his  shot  was  utterly  unwortiiy  to  be  a  Marine  Bandit.  But 
when  it  became  known  to  the  'Ears,  as  the  Clubbists  called 
themselves  familiarly,  that  Miss  Fotheringay  had  made  a  splen- 
did en<yagement,  a  great  revolution  of  feeling  took  place  in  the 
Club  regarding  Captain  Costigan.  Solly,  mine  host  of  the 
Grapes,  told  the  gents  in  the  Buccaneers'  room  one  night  how 
noble  the  Captain  had  beayved  ;  having  been  round  and  paid 
off  all  his  ticks  in  Chatteris,  including  his  score  of  three  pound 
fourteen  here  —  and  pronounced  that  Cos  was  a  good  fellar,  a 
gentleman  at  bottom,  and  he,  Solly,  had  always  said  so,  and 
finally  worked  upon  the  feelings  of  the  Buccaneers  to  give  the 
Captain  a  dinner. 

The  banquet  took  place  on  the  last  night  of  Costigan's  stay 
at  Chatteris,  and  was  served  in  Solly's  accustomed  manner. 
As  good  a  plain  dinner  of  old  English  fare  as  ever  smoked  on 
a  table  was  prepared  by  Mrs.  S0II3' ;  and  about  eighteen  gentle- 
men sat  down  to  the  festive  board.  Mr.  Jubber  (the  eminent 
draper  of  High  Street)  was  in  the  Chair,  having  the  distin- 
guished guest  of  the  Club  on  his  right.  The  able  and  con- 
sistent Hicks  officiated  as  croupier  on  the  occasion  ;  most  of 
the  gentlemen  of  the  Club  were  present,  and  H.  Foker,  Esq., 

and Spavin,  Esq.,  friends  of  Captain  Costigan,  were  also 

participators  in  the  entertainment.  The  cloth  having  been 
drawn,  the  Chairman  said,  "Costigan,  there  is  wine,  if  you 
like,"  but  the  Captain  preferring  punch,  that  liquor  was  voted 
by  acclamation  :  and  "  Non  Nobis"  having  been  sung  in  ad- 
mirable style  by  Messrs.  Bingley,  Hicks,  and  Bullby  (of  the 
Cathedral  chou-,  than  whom  a  more  jovial  spirit  "  ne'er  tossed 
off  a  bumper  or  emptied  a  bowl"),  the  Chairman  gave  the 
health  of  the  "  King !"  which  was  drunk  with  the  loyalty  of 
Chatteris  men,  and  then,  without  further  circumlocution,  pro- 
posed their  friend  "  Captain  Costigan." 

After  the  enthusiastic  cheering,  which  rang  through  old 
Chatteris,  had  subsided.  Captain  Costigan  rose  in  reply,  and 
made  a  speech  of  twenty  minutes,  in  which  he  was  repeatedly 
overcome  by  his  emotions. 

The  gallant  Captain  said  he  must  be  pardoned  for  incoher- 
ence, if  his  heart  was  too  full  to  speak.  He  was  quitting  a 
city  celebrated  for  its  antiquitee,  its  hospitalitee,  the  beautee 
of  its  women,  the  manly  fidelitee,  generositee,  and  jovialltee  of 


158  PENDEXXIS. 

its  men.  (^Cheers.)  He  -nras  going  from  that  ancient  and 
venerable  city,  of  which,  while  Mimoree  held  her  sayt,  he 
should  never  think  without  the  fondest  emotion,  to  a  methi'aw- 
polis  where  the  talents  of  his  daughter  were  about  to  have  full 
play,  and  where  he  would  watch  over  her  like  a  guardian  angel. 
He  should  never  forget  that  it  was  at  Chatteris  she  had  ac- 
quired the  skill  which  she  was  about  to  exercise  in  another 
sphere,  and  in  her  name  and  his  own.  Jack  Costigan  thanked 
and  blessed  them.  The  gallant  officer's  speech  was  received 
with  tremendous  cheers. 

Mr.  Hicks,  Croupier,  in  a  brilliant  and  energetic  manner, 
proposed  Miss  Fotheringay's  health. 

Captain  Costigan  returned  thanks  in  a  speech  full  of  feeling 
and  eloquence. 

Mr.  Jubber  proposed  the  Drama  and  the  Chatteris  Theatre, 
and  Mr.  Bingley  was  about  to  rise,  but  was  prevented  bv  Cap- 
tain Costigan.  who.  as  long  connected  with  the  Chatteris  Thea- 
tre, and  on  behalf  of  his  daughter,  thanked  the  company.  He 
informed  them  that  he  had  been  in  garrison,  at  Gibraltar,  and 
at  Malta,  and  had  been  at  the  taking  of  Flushing.  The  Duke 
of  York  was  a  patron  of  the  Drama  :  he  had  the  honor  of  dining 
with  His  Royal  Highness  and  the  Duke  of  Kent  many  times  ; 
and  the  former  had  justh'  been  named  the  friend  of  the  soldier. 
(Cheers.) 

The  Army  was  then  proposed,  and  Captain  Costigan  re- 
turned thanks.  In  the  course  of  the  night,  he  sang  his  well- 
known  songs,  "The  Deserter."  '-The  Shan  Van  Voght," 
"The  Little  Pig  under  the  Bed,"  and  "The  Vale  of  Avoca." 
The  evening  was  a  great  triumph  for  him  —  it  ended.  All 
triumphs  and  all  evenings  end.  And  the  next  day.  Miss  Costi- 
gan having  taken  leave  of  all  her  friends,  having  been  recon- 
ciled to  Miss  Rouncy,  to  whom  she  left  a  necklace  and  a  white 
satin  gown — the  next  day.  he  and  Miss  Costigan  had  places 
in  the  Competitor  coach  rolling  by  the  gates  of  Fairoaks  Lodge 
—  and  Pendennis  never  saw  them. 

Tom  Smith,  the  coachman,  pointed  out  Fairoaks  to  Mr. 
Costigan.  who  sat  on  the  box  smelling  of  rum-and-water  — 
and  the  Captain  said  it  was  a  poor  place  —  and  added,  "Ye 
should  see  Castle  Costigan.  County  Mayo,  me  boy,"  —  which 
Tom  said  he  should  like  ver\"  much  to  see. 

They  were  gone,  and  Pen  had  never  seen  them  !  He  only 
knew  of  their  departure  by  its  announcement  in  the  county 
paper  the  next  day  :  and  straight  galloped  over  to  Chatteris  to 
hear  the  truth  of  this  news.     They  were  gone  indeed.     A  card 


PENDENNiS.  159 

of  '•  Lodgings  to  let,"  was  placed  in  the  dear  little  familiar 
window.  He  rushed  up  into  the  room  and  viewed  it  over.  He 
sat  ever  so  long  in  the  old  window-seat  looking  into  the  Dean's 
Garden  :  whence  he  and  Emily  had  so  often  looked  out  together. 
He  walked,  with  a  sort  of  terror,  into  her  little  cmpt}'  bed- 
room. It  was  swept  out  and  prepared  for  new  comers.  The 
glass  which  had  reflected  her  fair  face  was  shining  read}'  for 
her  successor.  The  curtains  lay  square  folded  on  the  little 
bed :  he  flung  himself  down  and  buried  his  head  on  the  vacant 
pillow. 

Laura  had  netted  a  purse  into  which  his  mother  had  put 
some  sovereigns,  and  Pen  had  found  it  on  his  dressing-table 
that  very  morning.  He  gave  one  to  the  little  servant  who  had 
been  used  to  wait  upon  the  Costigans,  and  another  to  the  chil- 
dren, because  they  said  they  were  very  fond  of  Iter.  It  was 
but  a  few  mouths  back,  yet  what  years  ago  it  seemed  since  he 
had  first  entered  that  room  !  He  felt  that  it  was  all  done.  The 
very  missing  her  at  the  coach  had  something  fatal  in  it.  Blank, 
weary,  utterly  wretched  and  lonely  the  poor  lad  felt. 

His  mother  saw  She  was  gone  by  his  look  when  he  came 
home.  He  was  eager  to  fly  too  now,  as  were  other  folks  round 
about  Chatteris.  Poor  Smirke  wanted  to  go  away  from  the 
sight  of  the  siren  widow,  Foker  began  to  think  he  had  had 
enough  of  Baymouth,  and  that  a  few  supper  parties  at  Saint 
Boniface  would  not  be  unpleasant.  And  Major  Pendennis 
longed  to  be  off,  and  have  a  little  pheasant-shooting  at  Still- 
brook,  and  get  rid  of  all  the  annoyances  and  tracasseries  of  the 
village.  The  widow  and  Laura  nervously  set  about  the  prepa- 
rations for  Pen's  kit,  and  filled  trunks  with  his  books  and  linen. 
Helen  wrote  cards  with  the  name  of  Arthur  Pendennis,  Esq., 
which  were  duly  nailed  on  the  boxes  ;  and  at  which  both  slie 
and  Laura  looked  with  tearful,  wistful  ej'es.  It  was  not  until 
long,  long  after  he  was  gone,  that  Pen  remembered  how  constant 
and  tender  the  affection  of  these  women  had  been,  and  how 
selfish  his  own  conduct  was. 

A  night  soon  comes,  when  the  mail,  with  echoing  horn  and 
blazing  lamps,  stops  at  the  lodge-gate  of  Fairoaks,  and  Pen's 
trunks  and  his  Uncle's  are  placed  on  the  roof  of  the  carriage, 
into  which  the  pair  presently  afterwards  enter.  Helen  and 
Laura  are  standing  by  the  evergreens  of  the  shrubbery,  their 
figures  lighted  up  by  the  coach  lamps;  the  guard  cries  ''all 
right : "  in  another  instant  the  carriage  whirls  onward  ;  the 
lights  disappear,  and  Helen's  heart  and  prayers  go  with  them. 


160  PENDENNIS. 

Her  sainted  benedicti(ms  follow  the  departing  boy.  He  has 
left  the  home-nest  in  which  he  has  been  chafing,  and  whither, 
after  his  very  first  flight,  he  returned  bleeding  and  wounded  ; 
he  is  eager  to  go  forth  again  and  tr}'  his  restless  wings. 

How  lonely  the  house  looks  without  him !  The  corded 
trunks  and  book-boxes  are  there  in  his  empty  study.  Laura 
asks  leave  to  come  and  sleep  in  Helen's  room :  and  when  she 
|has  cried  herself  to  sleep  there,  the  mother  goes  softly  into 
TPen's  vacant  chamber,  and  kneels  down  by  the  bed  on  which 
the  moon  is  shining,  and  there  prays  for  her  boy,  as  mothers 
only  know  how  to  plead.  He  knows  that  her  pure  blessings 
are  following  him,  as  he  is  carried  miles  away. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

ALMA    MATER. 

Every  man,  however  brief  or  inglorious  may  have  been  his 
academical  career,  must  remember  with  kindness  and  tenderness 
the  old  university  comrades  and  days.  The  3'oung  man's  life  is 
just  beginning :  the  boy's  leading  strings  are  cut,  and  he  has 
all  the  novel  delights  and  dignities  of  freedom.  He  has  no  idea 
of  cares  yet,  or  of  bad  health,  or  of  roguery,  or  poverty,  or 
to-morrow's  disappointment.  The  pla}^  has  not  been  acted  so 
often  as  to  make  him  tired.  Though  the  after-drink,  as  we 
mechanicall}-  go  on  repeating  it,  is  stale  and  bitter,  how  pure 
and  brilliant  was  that  first  sparkling  draught  of  pleasure !  — 
How  the  boy  rushes  at  the  cup,  and  with  what  a  wild  eagerness 
he  drains  it !  But  old  epicures  who  are  cut  off  from  the  delights 
of  the  table,  and  are  restricted  to  a  poached  egg  and  a  glass  of 
water,  like  to  see  people  with  good  appetites  ;  and,  as  the  next 
best  thing  to  being  amused  at  a  pantomime  one's  self  is  to  see 
one's  children  enjoy  it,  I  hope  there  may  be  no  degree  of  age 
or  experience  to  which  mortal  may  attain,  when  he  shall  become 
such  a  glum  philosopher,  as  not  to  be  pleased  b}*  the  sight  of 
happy  youth.  Coming  back  a  few  weeks  since  from  a  brief  visit 
to  the  old  University  of  Oxbridge,  where  m}^  friend  Mr.  Arthui 
Pendennis  passed  some  period  of  his  life,  I  made  the  journey  in 
the  railroad  by  the  side  of  a  young  fellow  at  present  a  student 
of  Saint  Boniface.  He  had  got  an  exeat  somehow,  and  was  bent 
on  a  day's  laj"k  in  London  :  he  never  stopped  rattling  and  talk- 


PENDENNIS.  161 

ing  from  the  commencement  of  the  journey  until  its  close  (which 
was  a  great  deal  too  soon  for  me,  for  I  never  was  tired  of  listen- 
ing to  the  honest  3'oung  fellow's  jokes  and  cheer}-  laughter) ; 
and  when  we  arrived  at  the  terminus  nothing  would  satisfy-  him 
but  a  Hansom  cab,  so  that  he  might  get  into  town  the  quicker, 
and  plunge  into  the  pleasures  awaiting  him  tliere.  Away  the 
young  lad  went  whirling,  with  jo}-  lighting  up  his  honest  face  ; 
and  as  for  the  reader's  humble  servant,  having  but  a  small  car- 
pet-bag, I  got  up  on  the  outside  of  the  omnibus,  and  sat  there 
ver}-  contentedh'  between  a  Jew-pedlar  smoking  bad  cigars,  and 
a  gentleman's  servant  taking  care  of  a  poodle-dog,  until  we  got 
our  fated  complement  of  passengers  and  boxes,  when  the  coach- 
man drove  leisurely  awa}*.  We  weren't  in  a  hurry  to  get  to 
town.  Neither  one  of  us  was  particular!}-  eager  about  rusliing 
into  that  near  smoking  Babjlon,  or  thought  of  dining  at  the 
Club  that  night,  or  dancing  at  the  Casino.  Yet  a  few  j'ears 
more,  and  my  30ung  friend  of  the  railroad  will  be  not  a  whit 
more  eager. 

There  were  no  railroads  made  when  Arthur  Pendennis  went 
to  the  famous  Universit}'  of  Oxbridge  ;  but  he  drove  thither  in 
a  well-appointed  coach,  filled  inside  and  out  witli  dons,  gowns- 
men, 3'oung  freshmen  about  to  enter,  and  their  guardians,  who 
were  conducting  them  to  the  university.  A  fat  old  gentleman, 
in  gra}'  stockings,  from  the  Cit}-,  who  sat  b}-  Major  Pendennis 
inside  the  coach,  having  his  pale-faced  son  opposite,  was  fright- 
ened bej'ond  measui'e,  when  he  heard  that  the  coach  had  been 
driven  for  a  couple  of  stages  by  young  Mr.  Foker,  of  Saint  Boni- 
face College,  who  was  the  friend  of  all  men,  including  coachmen, 
and  could  drive  as  well  as  Tom  Hicks  himself.  Pen  sat  on 
the  roof,  examining  coach,  passengers,  and  country,  with  great 
delight  and  curiosit}-.  His  heart  jumped  with  pleasure  as  the 
famous  universit}-  came  in  view,  and  the  magnificent  prospect 
of  venerable  towers  and  pinnacles,  tall  elms  and  shining  river, 
spread  before  him.  I 

Pen  had  passed  a  few  days  wath  his  uncle  at  the  Major's 
lodgings,  in  Burj-  Street,  before  they  set  out  for  Oxbridge. 
Major  Pendennis  thought  that  the  lad's  wardrobe  wanted  re- 
newal ;  and  Arthur  was  b}-  no  means  averse  to  any  plan  which 
was  to  bring  him  new  coats  and  waistcoats.  There  was  no  end 
to  the  sacrifices  which  the  self-denying  uncle  made  in  the  youth's 
behalf.  London  was  awfully  lonely.  The  Pall  Mall  pavement 
was  deserted  ;  the  very  red-jackets  had  gone  out  of  town.  There 
was  scarce  a  face  to  be  seen  in  the  bow-windows  of  the  clubs. 
The  Major  conducted  his  nephew  into  one  or  two  of  those  desert 


162  PENDENNIS. 

mansions,  and  wrote  down  the  lad's  name  on  the  candidate-list 
of  one  of  them  ;  and  Arthur's  pleasure  at  this  compliment  on 
his  guardian's  part  was  excessive.  He  read  in  the  parchment 
volume  his  name  and  titles,  as  "  Arthur  Pendennis,  Esquire,  of 
Fairoaks  Lodge, shire,  and  Saint  Boniface  College,  Ox- 
bridge ;  proposed  b}'  Major  Pendennis,  and  seconded  by  Vis- 
count Colcliicum,"  with  a  thrill  of  intense  gratification.  "  You 
will  come  in  for  ballot  in  about  three  years,  by  which  time  you 
will  have  taken  your  degree,"  the  guardian  said.  Pen  longed 
for  the  three  3'ears  to  be  over,  and  surve^'ed  the  stucco-halls, 
and  vast  libraries,  and  drawing-rooms,  as  already  his  own  prop- 
erty. The  Major  laughed  slyly  to  see  the  pompous  airs  of  the 
simple  3'oung  fellow,  as  he  strutted  out  of  the  building.  He 
and  Foker  drove  down  in  the  latter's  cab  one  day  to  the  Grey 
Friars,  and  renewed  acquaintance  with  some  of  their  old  com- 
rades there.  The  boys  came  crowding  up  to  the  cab  as  it  stood 
by  the  Grey  Friars  gates,  where  they  were  entering,  and  ad- 
mired the  chestnut  horse,  and  the  tights  and  livery  and  gravity 
of  Stoopid,  the  tiger.  The  bell  for  afternoon-school  rang  as 
they  were  swaggering  about  the  play-ground  talking  to  their  old 
cronies.  The  awful  Doctor  passed  into  school  with  his  grammar 
in  his  hand.  Foker  slunk  away  uneasily  at  his  presence,  but 
Pen  went  up  blushing,  and  shook  the  dignitary  by  the  hand. 
He  laughed  as  he  thought  that  well-remembei'ed  Latin  Grammar 
had  boxed  his  ears  man}-  a  time.  He  was  generous,  good- 
natured,  and,  in  a  word,  perfectl}'^  conceited  and  satisfied  with 
himself. 

Then  they  drove  to  the  parental  brew-house.  Foker's  En- 
tire is  composed  in  an  enormous  pile  of  buildings,  not  far  from 
the  Grey  Friars,  and  the  name  of  that  well-known  firm  is  gilded 
upon  innumerable  public-house  signs,  tenanted  b}^  its  vassals  in 
the  neighborhood  :  the  venerable  junior  partner  and  manager 
did  honor  to  the  young  lord  of  the  vats  and  his  friend,  and 
served  them  with  silver  flagons  of  brown-stout,  so  strong,  that 
you  would  have  thought,  not  only  the  young  men,  but  the  ver}' 
horse  Mr.  Hany  Foker  drove,  was  affected  b^-  the  potency  of 
the  drink,  for  he  rushed  home  to  the  west-end  of  the  town  at  a 
rapid  pace,  which  endangered  the  pie-stalls  and  the  women  on 
the  crossings,  and  brought  the  cab-steps  into  collision  with  the 
posts  at  the  street  corners,  and  caused  Stoopid  to  swing  fear- 
fully on  his  board  behind. 

The  Major  was  quite  pleased  when  Pen  was  with  his  young 
acquaintance  ;  listened  to  Mr.  Foker's  artless  stories  with  the 
greatest  interest :  gave  the  two  boj's  a  fine  dinner  at  a  Covent 


PENDENNIS,  163 

Garden  Coffee-house,  whence  they  proceeded  to  the  play ;  but 
was  above  all  happy  when  Mr.  and  Lady  Agnes  Foker,  who 
happened  to  be  in  London,  requested  the  pleasure  of  Major 
Pendennis  and  Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis's  company  at  dinner  in 
Grosvenor  Street.  ' '  Having  obtained  the  entree  into  Lady 
Agnes  Foker's  house,"  he  said  to  Pen  with  an  affectionate  sol- 
emnity which  befitted  the  importance  of  the  occasion,  "■  it  be- 
hoves 3'ou,  my  dear  boy,  to  keep  it.  You  must  mind  and  never 
neglect  to  call  in  Grosvenor  Street  when  you  come  to  London. 
I  recommend  3'ou  to  read  up  careful!}',  in  Debrett,  the  alhances 
and  genealogy  of  the  Earls  of  Rosherville,  and  if  you  can,  to 
make  some  trifling  allusions  to  the  famil}',  something  historical, 
neat,  and  complimentary,  and  that  sort  of  thing,  which  you, 
who  have  a  poetic  fancy,  can  do  prett}'  well.  Mr.  Foker  him- 
self is  a  worth}'  man,  though  not  of  high  extraction  or  indeed 
much  education.  He  always  makes  a  point  of  having  some  of 
the  family  porter  served  round  after  dinner,  which  you  will  on 
no  account  refuse,  and  which  I  shall  drink  myself,  though  all 
beer  disagrees  with  me  confoundedh'."  And  the  heroic  martj'i- 
did  actually  sacrifice  himself,  as  he  said  he  would,  on  the  day 
when  the  dinner  took  place,  and  old  Mr.  Foker,  at  the  head  of 
his  table,  made  his  usual  joke  about  Foker's  Entire.  We 
should  all  of  us,  I  am  sure,  have  liked  to  see  the  Major's  grin, 
when  the  worthy  old  gentleman  made  his  time-honored  joke. 

Lad}'  Agnes,  who,  wrapped  up  in  Harry,  was  the  fondest 
of  mothers,  and  one  of  the  most  good-naturfed  though  not  the 
wisest  of  women,  received  her  son's  friend  with  great  cordiality  ; 
and  astonished  Pen  by  accounts  of  the  severe  course  of  studies 
which  her  darling  bo}'  was  pursuing,  and  which  she  feared 
might  injure  his  dear  health.  Foker  the  elder  burst  into  a 
horse-laugh  at  some  of  these  speeches,  and  the  heir  of  the 
house  winked  his  eye  ver}'  knowingly  at  his  friend.  And  Lady 
Agnes  then  going  through  her  son's  history  from  the  earliest 
time,  and  recounting  his  miraculous  sufferings  in  the  measles 
and  whooping-cough,  his  escape  from  drowning,  the  shocking 
tyrannies  practised  upon  him  at  that  horrid  school,  whither  Mr. 
Foker  would  send  him  because  he  had  l^een  brought  up  there  him- 
self, and  she  never  would  forgive  that  disagreeable  Doctor,  no 
never  —  Lady  Agnes,  we  sa}',  having  prattled  away  for  an  hour 
incessantly  about  her  son,  voted  the  two  Messieurs  Pendennis 
most  agreeable  men ;  and  when  the  pheasants  came  with  the 
second  course,  which  the  Major  praised  as  the  very  finest  birds 
he  ever  saw,  her  ladyship  said  tlioy  came  from  Logwood  (as 
the  Major  knew  perfectly'  well)  and  hoped  that  they  would  both 


164  PENDENNIS. 

pay  her  a  visit  there  —  at  Christmas,  or  when  dear  Harry  was 
at  home  for  the  vacations. 

"  God  bless  you,  my  dear  bo}-,"  Pendennis  said  to  Arthur, 
as  they  were  lighting  their  candles  in  Bury  Street  afterwards 
to  go  to  bed.  "You  made  that  little  allusion  to  Agincourt, 
where  one  of  the  Roshervilles  distinguished  himself,  very  neatly 
and  well,  although  Lady  Agnes  did  not  quite  understand  it : 
but  it  was  exceedingly  well  for  a  beginner  —  though  you 
oughtn't  to  blush  so,  by  the  way  —  and  I  beseech  j'ou,  m}-  dear 
Arthur,  to  remember  through  life,  that  with  an  entree  —  with  a 
good  entree,  mind  —  it  is  just  as  easy  for  you  to  have  good 
society  as  bad,  and  that  it  costs  a  man,  when  properly  intro- 
duced, no  more  trouble  or  soins  to  keep  a  good  footing  in  the 
best  houses  in  London  than  to  dine  with  a  law3-er  in  Bedford 
Square.  Mind  this  when  3'ou  are  at  Oxbridge  pursuing  your 
studies,  and  for  Heaven's  sake  be  very  particular  in  the  acquaint- 
ances which  you  make.  The  premier  pas  in  life  is  the  most 
important  of  all  —  did  you  write  to  your  mother  to-day  ?  —  No  ? 
—  well,  do,  before  3'ou  go,  and  call  and  ask  Mr.  Foker  for  a 
frank  —  They  like  it  —  Good  night.     God  bless  3'ou." 

Pen  wrote  a  droll  account  of  his  doings  in  London,  and  the 
play,  and  the  visit  to  the  old  Friars,  and  the  brewer}-,  and  the 
party  at  Mr.  Foker's,  to  his  dearest  mother,  who  was  saying 
her  prayers  at  home  in  the  lonely  house  at  Fairoaks,  her  heart 
full  of  love  and  tenderness  unutterable  for  the  boy :  and  she 
and  Laura  read  tliat  letter  and  those  which  followed,  man}', 
many  times,  and  brooded  over  them  as  women  do.  It  was  the 
first  step  in  life  that  Pen  was  making  —  Ah  !  what  a  dangerous 
journe}'  it  is,  and  how  the  bravest  ma}'  stumble  and  the  strong- 
est fail.  Brother  wayfarer  !  ma}'  you  have  a  kind  arm  to  sup- 
port yours  on  the  path,  and  a  friendly  hand  to  succor  those 
who  fall  beside  you.  May  truth  guide,  mercy  forgive  at  the 
end,  and  love  accompany  always.  Without  that  lamp  how 
blind  the  traveller  would  be,  and  how  black  and  cheerless  the 
journey ! 

So  the  coach  drove  up  to  that  ancient  and  comfortable  inn 
the  Trencher,  which  stands  in  Main  Street,  Oxbridge,  and  Pen 
with  delight  and  eagerness  remarked,  for  the  first  time,  gowns- 
men going  about,  chapel  bells  clinking  (bells  in  Oxbridge  are 
ringing  from  morning-tide  till  even-song,)  — towers  and  pinna- 
cles rising  calm  and  stately  over  the  gables  and  antique  house- 
roofs  of  the  city.  Previous  communications  had  taken  place 
between  Doctor  Portman  on  Pen's  part,  and  Mr.  Buck,  Tutor 
of  Boniface,  on  whose  side  Pen  was  entered ;  and  as  soon  as 


PENDENNIS.  165 

Major  Pendennis  had  aiTanged  his  personal  appearance,  so  that 
it  should  make  a  satisfactor}'  impression  upon  Pen's  tutor,  the 
pair  walked  down  Main  Street,  and  passed  the  great  gate  and 
belfry-tower  of  Saint  George's  College,  and  so  came,  as  the}' 
were  directed,  to  Saint  Boniface,  where  again  Pen's  heart  be- 
gan to  beat  as  they  entered  at  the  wicket  of  the  venerable  ivy- 
mantled  gate  of  the  College.  It  is  surmounted  with  an  ancient 
dome  almost  covered  with  creepers,  and  adorned  with  the  effigy 
of  the  Saint  from  whom  the  House  takes  its  name,  and  many 
coats-of-arms  of  its  royal  and  noble  benefactors. 

The  porter  pointed  out  a  queer  old  tower  at  the  corner  of 
the  quadrangle,  b}'  which  Mr.  Buck's  rooms  wei'e  approached, 
and  the  two  gentlemen  walked  across  the  square,  the  main  fea- 
tures of  wliich  were  at  once  and  for  ever  stamped  in  Pen's  miud 
—  the  pretty  fountain  playing  in  the  centre  of  the  fair  grass 
plats  ;  the  tall  chapel  windows  and  buttresses  rising  to  the 
right ;  the  hall,  with  its  tapering  lantern  and  oriel  window  ;  the 
lodge,  from  the  doors  of  which  the  Master  issued  awfully  in 
rustling  silks  :  the  lines  of  the  surrounding  rooms  pleasantly 
broken  b}'  carved  chimneys,  gray  turrets,  and  quaint  gables  — 
all  these  Mr.  Pen's  ej'es  drank  in  with  an  eagerness  which 
belongs  to  first  impressions  ;  and  Major  Pendennis  surveyed 
with  that  calmness  which  belongs  to  a  gentleman  who  does  not 
care  for  the  picturesque,  and  whose  ejes  have  been  somewhat 
dimmed  by  the  constant  glare  of  the  pavement  of  Pall  Mall. 

Saint  George's  is  the  great  College  of  the  Universit}-  of 
Oxbridge,  with  its  four  vast  quadrangles,  and  its  beautiful  hall 
and  gardens,  and  the  Georgians,  as  the  men  are  called,  wear 
gowns  of  a  peculiar  cut,  and  give  themselves  no  small  airs  of 
superiority  over  all  other  young  men.  Little  Saint  Boniface 
is  but  a  petty  hermitage  in  comparison  of  the  huge  consecrated 
pile  alongside  of  which  it  lies.  But  considering  its  size  it  has 
always  kept  an  excellent  name  in  the  university.  Its  ton  is 
veiy  good  :  the  best  families  of  certain  counties  have  time  out 
of  mind  sent  up  their  young  men  to  Saint  Boniface  :  the  college 
livings  are  remarkabl}'  good,  the  fellowships  eas}" ;  the  Boniface 
men  had  had  more  than  their  fair  share  of  university  honors  ; 
their  boat  was  third  upon  the  river ;  their  chapel-choir  is  not 
inferior  to  Saint  George's  itself;  and  the  Boniface  ale  the  best 
in  Oxbridge.  In  the  comfortable  old  wainscoted  College-Hall, 
and  round  about  Roubilliac's  statue  of  Saint  Boniface  (who 
stands  in  an  attitude  of  seraphic  benediction  over  the  uncom 
monl}'  good  cheer  of  the  fellows'  table)  there  are  portraits  of 
manv  most  eminent  Bonifacians.     There  is  the  learned  Doctor 


166  PENDENNIS. 

Griddle,  who  suffered  in  Henry  VIII. 's  time,  and  Archbishop 
Bush  who  roasted  him  —  tlaere  is  Lord  Chief  Justice  Hicks  — 
the  Dulie  of  St.  Da^dd's,  K.G.,  Chancellor  of  the  Universit}' 
and  Member  of  this  College  —  Sprott  the  Poet,  of  whose  fame 
the  college  is  justly  proud  —  Doctor  Blogg,  the  late  master,  and 
friend  of  Doctor  Johnson,  who  visited  him  at  Saint  Boniface  — 
and  other  lawyers,  scholars,  and  divines,  whose  portraitures 
look  from  the  walls,  or  whose  coats-of-arms  shine  in  emerald 
and  ruby,  gold  and  azure,  in  the  tall  windows  of  the  refectory. 
The  venerable  cook  of  the  college  is  one  of  the  best  artists  in 
Oxbridge,  and  the  wine  in  the  fellows'  room  has  long  been 
famed  for  its  excellence  and  abundance. 

Into  this  certainly  not  the  least  snugly  sheltered  arbor 
amongst  the  groves  of  Academe,  Pen  now  found  his  way,  lean- 
ing on  his  uncle's  arm,  and  they  speedily  reached  Mr.  Buck's 
rooms,  and  were  conducted  into  the  apartment  of  that  courteous 
gentleman. 

He  had  received  previous  information  from  Doctor  Portman 
regarding  Pen,  with  respect  to  whose  family,  fortune,  and  per- 
sonal merits  the  honest  doctor  had  spoken  with  no  small  en- 
thusiasm. Indeed  Portman  had  described  Arthur  to  the  tutor 
as  "a  young  gentleman  of  some  fortune  and  landed  estate,  of 
one  of  the  most  ancient  families  in  the  kingdom,  and  possess- 
ing such  a  character  and  genius  as  were  sure,  under  proper 
guidance,  to  make  him  a  credit  to  the  college  and  the  univer- 
sity." Under  such  recommendations,  the  tutor  was,  of  course, 
most  cordial  to  the  young  freshman  and  his  guardian,  invited 
the  latter  to  dine  in  hall,  where  he  would  haA'e  the  satisfaction 
of  seeing  his  nephew  wear  his  gown  and  eat  his  dinner  for  the 
first  time,  and  requested  the  pair  to  take  wine  at  his  rooms 
after  hall,  and  in  consequence  of  the  highly'  favorable  report 
he  had  received  of  Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis,  said,  he  should  be 
happy  to  give  him  the  best  set  of  rooms  to  be  had  in  college  — ■ 
a  gentleman-pensioner's  set,  indeed,  which  were  just  luckily- 
vacant.  "When  a  College  Magnate  takes  the  trouble  to  be 
polite,  there  is  no  man  more  splendidh'  courteous.  Immersed 
in  their  books,  and  excluded  from  the  world  by  the  gravity  of 
their  occupations,  these  reverend  men  assume  a  solemn  mag- 
nificence of  compliment  in  which  they  rustle  and  swell  as  in  their 
grand  robes  of  state.  Those  silks  and  brocades  are  not  put  on 
for  all  comers  or  every  day. 

When  the  two  gentlemen  had  taken  leave  of  the  tutor  in  his 
study,  and  had  returned  to  Mr.  Buck's  ante-room,  or  lecture- 
room,  a  very  handsome  apartment,  turkey  carpeted,  and  hung 


PEN  DENNIS.  167 

with  excellent  prints  and  richly  framed  pictures,  they  found  the 
tutor's  servant  already  in  waiting  there,  accompanied  by  a  man 
with  a  bag  full  of  caps  and  a  number  of  gowns,  from  which 
Pen  might  select  a  cap  and  gown  for  himself,  and  the  servant, 
no  doubt,  would  get  a  commission  proportionable  to  the  service 
done  by  him.  Mr.  Pen  was  all  in  a  tremor  of  pleasure  as  the 
bustling  tailor  tried  on  a  gown,  and  pronounced  that  it  was  an 
excellent  fit ;  and  then  he  put  the  pretty  college  cap  on,  in  rather 
a  dandified  manner,  and  somewhat  on  one  side,  as  he  had  seen 
Fiddicombe,  the  3-oungest  master  at  Grey  Friars,  wear  it. 
And  he  inspected  the  entire  costume  with  a  great  deal  of  satis- 
faction in  one  of  the  great  gilt  mirrors  which  ornamented  Mr. 
Buck's  lecture-room  :  for  some  of  these  college  divines  are  no 
more  above  looking-glasses  than  a  lad}'  is,  and  look  to  the  set 
of  their  gowns  and  caps  quite  as  anxiousty  as  folks  do  of  the 
lovelier  sex. 

Then  Davis,  the  skip  or  attendant,  led  the  way,  keys  in 
hand,  across  the  quadrangle,  the  Major  and  Pen  following  him, 
the  latter  blushing,  and  pleased  with  his  new  academical  habili- 
ments, across  the  quadrangle  to  the  rooms  which  were  destined 
for  the  freshman  ;  and  which  were  vacated  by  the  retreat  of  the 
gentleman-pensioner,  Mr.  Spicer.  The  rooms  were  very  com- 
fortable, with  large  cross  beams,  high  wainscots,  and  small 
whidows  in  deep  embrasures.  Mr.  Spicer's  furniture  was  there, 
and  to  be  sold  at  a  valuation,  and  Major  Pendennis  agreed  on 
his  nephew's  behalf  to  take  the  available  part  of  it,  laughingly 
however  declining  (as,  indeed.  Pen  did  for  his  own  part)  six 
sporting  prints,  and  four  groups  of  opera-dancers  with  gauze 
draperies,  which  formed  the  late  occupant's  pictorial  collection. 

Then  they  went  to  hall,  where  Pen  sat  down  and  ate  his 
commons  with  his  brother  freshmen,  and  the  Major  took  his 
place  at  the  high-table  along  with  the  college  dignitaries  and 
other  fathers  or  guardians  of  youth,  who  had  come  up  with  their 
sons  to  Oxbridge  ;  and  after  all  the}-  went  to  Mr.  Buck's  to 
take  wine  ;  and  after  wine  to  chapel,  where  the  Major  sat  with 
great  gra\dty  in  the  upper  place,  having  a  fine  view  of  the  Mas- 
ter in  his  carved  throne  or  stall  under  the  organ-loft,  where 
that  gentleman,  the  learned  Doctor  Donne,  sat  magnificent, 
with  his  great  praj'cr-book  before  him,  an  image  of  statuesque 
piety  and  rigid  devotion.  All  the  young  freshmen  behaved 
with  gravity  and  decorum,  but  Pen  was  shocked  to  see  that 
atrocious  little  Foker,  who  came  in  very  late,  and  half  a  dozen 
of  his  comrades  in  the  gentlemen-pensioners'  seats,  giggling 
and  talldng  as  if  they  had  ))(.'eii  in  so  many  stalls  at  the  Opera. 


168  PENDENNIS. 

Pen  could  hardl}'  sleep  at  night  in  his  bedroom  at  the 
Trencher :  so  anxious  was  he  to  begin  his  college  life,  and  to 
get  into  his  own  apartments.  What  did  he  think  about,  as  he 
iaj-  tossing  and  awake  ?  Was  it  about  his  mother  at  home  ; 
the  pious  soul  whose  life  was  bound  up  in  his?  Yes,  let  us 
hope  he  thought  of  her  a  little.  Was  it  about  Miss  Fotherin- 
gay,  and  his  eternal  passion,  which  had  kept  him  awake  so 
many  nights,  and  created  such  wretchedness  and  such  longing? 
He  had  a  trick  of  blushing,  and  if  you  had  been  in  the  room, 
and  the  candle  had  not  boen  out,  you  might  have  seen  the  youth's 
countenance  redden  more  than  once,  as  he  broke  out  into  pas- 
sionate incoherent  exclamations  regarding  that  luckless  event  of 
his  life.  His  uncle's  lessons  had  not  been  thrown  away  Upon 
him ;  the  mist  of  passion  had  passed  from  his  e3^es  now,  and  he 
saw  her  as  she  was.  To  think  that  he,  Pendennis,  had  been  en- 
slaved by  such  a  woman,  and  then  jilted  by  her  !  that  he  should 
have  stooped  so  low,  to  be  trampled  on  in  the  mire  !  that  there 
was  a  time  in  his  life,  and  that  but  a  few  months  back,  when  he 
was  willing  to  take  Costigan  for  his  father-in-law  !  — 

"Poor  old  Smirke  !  "  Pen  presently  laughed  out — "well, 
I'll  write  and  tr}'  and  console  the  poor  old  boy.  He  won't  die 
of  his  passion,  ha,  ha ! "  The  Major,  had  he  been  awake, 
might  have  heard  a  score  of  such  ejaculations  uttered  b}'  Pen 
as  he  lay  awake  and  restless  through  the  first  night  of  his  resi- 
dence at  Oxbridge. 

It  would,  perhaps,  have  been  better  for  a  youth,  the  battle 
of  whose  life  was  going  to  begin  on  the  morrow,  to  have  passed 
the  eve  in  a  different  sort  of  vigil :  but  the  world  had  got  hold 
of  Pen  in  the  shape  of  his  selfish  old  Mentor :  and  those  who 
have  any  interest  in  his  character,  mi>st  have  perceived  ere  now, 
that  this  lad  was  very  weak  as  well  as  very  impetuous,  very 
vain  as  well  as  very  frank,  and  if  of  a  generous  disposition, 
not  a  little  selfish,  in  the  midst  of  his  profuseness,  and  also 
rather  fickle,  as  all  eager  pursuers  of  self-gratification  are. 

The  six-months'  passion  had  aged  him  very  considerably. 
There  was  an  immense  gulf  between  Pen  the  victim  of  love, 
and  Pen  the  innocent  boy  of  eighteen,  sighing  after  it :  and  so 
Arthur  Pendennis  had  all  the  experience  and  superiority,  besides 
that  command  which  afterwards  conceit  and  imperiousness  of 
disposition  gave  him  over  the  young  men  with  whom  he  now 
began  to  live. 

He  and  his  uncle  passed  the  morning  with  great  satisfaction 
in  making  purchases  for  the  better  comfort  of  the  apartments 
which  the  lad  was  about   to  occupy.     Mr.  Spicer's  china  and 


PENDENNIS.  169 

glass  were  in  a  dreadfully  dismantled  condition,  his  lamps 
smashed,  and  his  book-cases  by  no  means  so  spacious  as  those 
shelves  which  would  be  requisite  to  receive  the  contents  of  the 
boxes  which  were  lying  in  the  hall  at  Fairoaks,  and  which 
were  addressed  to  Arthur  in  the  hand  of  poor  Helen. 

The  boxes  arrived  in  a  few  da3-s,  that  his  mother  had  packed 
with  so  much  care.  Pen  was  touched  as  he  read  the  superscrip- 
tions in  the  dear  well-known  hand,  and  he  arranged  in  their 
proper  places  all  the  books,  his  old  friends,  and  all  the  linen 
and  table-cloths  which  Helen  had  selected  from  the  family  stock, 
and  all  the  jam-pots  which  little  Laura  had  bound  in  straw,  and 
the  hundred  simple  gifts  of  home. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

PENDENNIS     OF     BONIFACE. 

OtTR  friend  Pen  was  not  sorry  when  his  Mentor  took  leave 
of  the  3'oung  gentleman  on  the  second  day  after  the  arrival  of 
the  pair  in  Oxbridge,  and  we  ma}'  be  sure  that  the  Major  on 
his  part  was  very  glad  to  have  discharged  his  dut}-,  and  to  have 
the  dut}'  over.  More  than  three  months  of  precious  time  had 
that  martyr  of  a  Major  given  up  to  his  nephew  —  Was  ever 
selfish  man  called  upon  to  make  a  greater  sacrifice  ?  Do  you 
know  man}'  men  or  Majors  who  would  do  as  much?  A  man 
will  la}-  down  his  head,  or  peril  his  life  for  his  honor,  but  let  us 
be  shy  how  we  ask  him  to  give  up  his  ease  or  his  heart's  desire. 
Very  few  of  us  can  bear  that  trial.  Let  us  give  the  Major  due 
creclit  for  his  conduct  during  the  past  quarter,  and  own  that  he 
has  quite  a  right  to  be  pleased  at  getting  a  holiday.  Foker 
and  Pen  saw  him  off  in  the  coach,  and  the  former  youth  gave 
particular  orders  to  the  coachman  to  take  care  of  that  gentleman 
inside.  It  pleased  the  elder  Pendennis  to  have  his  nephew  in 
the  company  of  a  young  fellow  who  would  introduce  him  to  the 
best  set  of  the  university.  The  Major  rushed  ofi"  to  London 
and  thence  to  Cheltenham,  from  which  watering-place  he  de- 
scended upon  some  neighboring  great  houses,  whereof  the 
families  were  not  gone  abroad,  and  where  good  shooting  and 
company  were  to  be  had. 

We  are  not  about  to  go  throivgh  young  Pen's  academical 
career  very  minutely.     Alas.  t\w  life  of  such  boys  doero  not  bear 


170  PENDENNIS. 

telling  altogether.  I  wish  it  did.  I  ask  yon,  does  3'ours?  As 
long  as  what  we  call  our  honor  is  clear,  1  suppose  jour  mind  is 
prett}'  easy.  Women  are  pure,  but  not  men.  Women  are  un- 
selfish, but  not  men.  And  I  would  not  wish  to  say  of  poor 
Arthur  Pendennis  that  he  was  worse  than  his  neighbors,  only 
that  his  neighbors  are  bad  for  the  most  part.  Let  us  have  the 
candor  to  own  as  much  at  least.  Can  you  point  out  ten  spot- 
less men  of  your  acquaintance?  Mine  is  pretty  large,  but  I 
can't  find  ten  saints  in  the  list. 

During  the  first  term  of  Mr.  Pen's  universit}'  life,  he  attended 
classical  and  mathematical  lectures  with  tolerable  assiduity' ; 
but  discovering  before  very  long  time  that  he  had  little  taste  or 
genius  for  the  pursuing  of  the  exact  sciences,  and  being  perhaps 
rather  annoj'ed  that  one  or  two  verj'  vulgar  young  men,  who 
did  not  even  use  straps  to  their  trousers  so  as  to  cover  the 
abominabl}-  thick  and  coarse  shoes  and  stockings  which  they 
wore,  beat  him  completel}'  in  the  lecture-room,  he  gave  up  his 
attendance  at  that  course,  and  announced  to  his  fond  parent 
that  he  proposed  to  devote  himself  exclusivel}-  to  the  cultivation 
of  Greek  and  Roman  Literature. 

Mrs.  Pendennis  was,  for  her  part,  quite  satisfied  that  her 
darling  boy  should  pursue  that  branch  of  learning  for  which  he 
had  the  greatest  inclination  ;  and  onl}-  besought  him  not  to  ruin 
his  health  by  too  much  studv,  for  she  had  heard  the  most  mel- 
ancholy stories  of  young  students  who,  by  over  fatigue,  had 
brought  on  brain-fevers  and  perished  untimely  in  the  midst  of 
their  university  career.  And  Pen's  health,  which  was  alwaj's 
delicate,  was  to  be  regarded,  as  she  justly  said,  beyond  all  con- 
siderations or  vain  honors.  Pen,  although  not  aware  of  any 
lurking  disease  w^hich  was  likely  to  endanger  his  life,  yet  kindly 
promised  his  mamma  not  to  sit  up  reading  too  late  of  nights, 
and  stuck  to  his  word  in  this  respect  with  a  great  deal  more 
tenacity  of  resolution  than  he  exhibited  upon  some  other  occa- 
sions, when  perhaps  he  was  a  little  remiss. 

Presently  he  began  too  to  find  that  he  learned  little  good  in 
the  classical  lecture.  His  fellow-students  there  were  too  dull, 
as  in  mathematics  they  were  too  learned  for  him.  Mr.  Buck,' 
the  tutor,  was  no  better  a  scholar  than  many  a  fifth-form  bo}'  at 
Grey  Friars  ;  might  have  some  stupid  humdrum  notions  about 
the  metre  and  grammatical  construction  of  a  passage  of  ^schy- 
lus  or  Aristophanes,  but  had  no  more  notion  of  the  poetry  than 
Mrs.  Binge,  his  bed-maker ;  and  Pen  grew  weary  of  hearing 
the  dull  students  and  tutor  blunder  through  a  few  lines  of  a 
play,  which  he  could  read  in  a  tenth  part  of  the  time  which  they 


PENDENNIS.  171 

gave  to  it.  After  all,  private  reading,  as  lie  began  to  perceive, 
was  the  only  study  which  was  really  profitable  to  a  man  ;  and 
he  announced  to  his  mamma  that  he  should  read  by  himself  a 
great  deal  more,  and  in  public  a  great  deal  less.  That  excel- 
lent woman  knew  no  more  about  Homer  than  she  did  about 
Algebra,  but  she  was  quite  contented  with  Pen's  arrangements 
regarding  his  course  of  studies,  and  felt  perfectly  confident  that 
her  dear  boy  would  get  the  place  which  he  merited. 

Pen  did  not  come  home  until  after  Christmas,  a  little  to  the 
fond  mother's  disappointment,  and  Laura's,  who  was  longing 
for  him  to  make  a  fine  snow  fortification,  such  as  he  had  made 
three  winters  before.  But  he  was  invited  to  Logwood,  Lady 
Agnes  Foker's,  where  there  were  private  theatricals,  and  a  gay 
Christmas  party  of  very  fine  folks,  some  of  them  whom  Major 
Pendennis  would  on  no  account  have  his  nephew  neglect.  How- 
ever, he  stayed  at  home  for  the  last  three  weeks  of  the  va- 
cation, and  Laura  had  the  opportunity  of  remarking  what  a 
quantit}-  of  fine  new  clothes  he  brought  with  him,  and  his 
mother  admu-ed  his  improved  appearance  and  manly  and  de- 
cided tone. 

He  did  not  come  home  at  Easter ;  but  when  he  arrived  for 
the  long  vacation,  he  brought  more  smart  clothes  ;  appearing 
in  the  morning  in  wonderful  shooting-jackets,  with  remarkable 
buttons  ;  and  in  the  evening  in  gorgeous  velvet  waistcoats, 
with  richly  embroidered  cravats,  and  curious  linen.  And  as 
she  pried  about  his  room,  she  saw,  oh,  such  a  beautiful  dressing- 
case,  with  silver  mountings,  and  a  quantity  of  lovely  rings  and 
jewellery.  And  he  had  a  new  French  watch  and  gold  chain,  in 
place  of  the  big  old  chronometer,  with  its  bunch  of  jingling 
seals,  which  had  hung  from  the  fob  of  John  Pendennis,  and  by 
the  second-hand  of  which  the  defunct  doctor  had  felt  many  a 
patient's  pulse  in  his  time.  It  was  but  a  few  months  back  Pen 
had  longed  for  this  watch,  which  he  thought  the  most  splendid 
and  august  time-piece  in  the  world  ;  and  just  before  he  went  to 
college,  Helen  had  taken  it  out  of  her  trinket-box  (where  it  had 
remained  unwound  since  the  death  of  her  husband)  and  given 
it  to  Pen  w4th  a  solemn  and  appropriate  little  speech  respecting 
his  father's  virtues  and  the  proper  use  of  time.  This  portly 
and  valuable  chronometer  Pen  now  pronounced  to  be  out  of 
date,  and  indeed,  made  some  comparisons  between  it  and  a 
warming-pan,  which  Laura  thought  disrespectful,  and  he  left 
the  watch  in  a  drawer,  in  the  company  of  soiled  prinu'ose  gloves, 
ora\ats  which  had  gone  out  of  favor,  and  of  that  othei'  school 
watch  which  has  once  before  been  mentioned  in  this  history. 


172  PENDENNIS. 

Our  old  friend,  Rebecca,  Pen  pronounced  to  be  no  longer  up  to 
his  weight,  and  swapped  her  away  for  another  and  more  power- 
ful horse,  for  which  he  had  to  pay  rather  a  heavy  figure.  Mrs. 
Pendennis  gave  the  boy  the  money  for  the  new  horse  ;  and  Laura 
cried  when  Rebecca  was  fetched  away. 

Also  Pen  brought  a  large  box  of  cigars  branded  Colorados, 
Afrancesados,  Telescopios,  Fudson  Oxford  Street,  or  by  some 
such  strange  titles,  and  began  to  consume  these  not  only  about 
the  stables  and  green-houses,  where  they  were  very  good  for 
Helen's  plants,  but  in  his  own  study,  —  which  practice  his 
mother  did  not  at  first  approve.  But  he  was  at  work  upon  a 
prize-poem,  he  said,  and  could  not  compose  without  his  cigar, 
and  quoted  the  late  lamented  Lord  Byron's  lines  in  favor  of  the 
custom  of  smoking.  As  he  was  smoking  to  such  good  purpose, 
his  mother  could  not  of  course  refuse  permission :  in  fact,  the 
good  soul  coming  into  the  room  one  day  in  the  midst  of  Pen's 
labors  (he  was  consulting  a  novel  which  had  recently  appeared, 
for  the  cultivation  of  the  light  literature  of  his  own  country  as 
well  as  of  foreign  nations  became  every  student)  —  Helen,  we 
say,  coming  into  the  room  and  finding  Pen  on  the  sofa  at  this 
work,  rather  than  disturb  him  went  for  a  light-box  and  his 
cigar-case  to  his  bedroom  which  was  adjacent,  and  actually 
put  the  cigar  into  his  mouth  and  lighted  the  match  at  which  he 
kindled  it.  Pen  laughed,  and  kissed  his  mother's  hand  as  it 
hung  fondly  over  the  back  of  the  sofa.  "  Dear  old  mother,"  he 
said,  "  if  I  were  to  tell  you  to  burn  the  house  down,  I  think  you 
would  do  it."  And  it  is  very  likely  that  Mr.  Pen  was  right, 
and  that  the  foolish  woman  would  have  done  almost  as  much 
for  him  as  he  said. 

Besides  the  works  of  English  "  light  literature"  which  this 
dihgent  student  devoured,  he  brought  down  boxes  of  the  light 
literature  of  the  neighboring  country  of  France  :  into  the  leaves 
of  which  when  Helen  dipped,  she  read  such  things  as  caused 
her  to  open  her  eyes  with  wonder.  But  Pen  showed  her  that 
it  was  not  he  who  made  the  books,  though  it  was  absolutely 
necessary  that  he  should  keep  up  his  French  by  an  acquaint- 
ance with  the  most  celebrated  writers  of  the  day,  and  that  it  was 
as  clearly  his  duty  to  read  the  eminent  Paul  de  Kock,  as  to 
study  Swift  or  Moliere.  And  Mrs.  Pendennis  yielded  with  a 
sigh  of  perplexity.  But  Miss  Laura  was  warned  off  the  books, 
both  by  his  anxious  mother,  and  that  rigid  moralist  Mr.  Arthur 
Pendennis  himself,  who,  however  he  might  be  called  upon  to 
study  ever}'  branch  of  literature  in  order  to  form  his  mind  and 
to  perfect  his  style,  would  by  no  means  prescribe  such  a  course 


PENDENNIS.  173 

of  reading  to  a  young  lady  whose  business  in  life  was  very 
different. 

In  the  course  of  this  long  vacation  Mr.  Pen  drank  up  the 
bin  of  claret  which  his  lather  had  laid  in,  and  of  which  we 
have  heard  the  son  remark  that  there  was  not  a  headache  in  a 
hogshead  ;  and  this  wine  being  exhausted,  he  wrote  for  a  fur- 
ther supph"  to  "•his  wine  merchants,"  Messrs.  Binney  and 
Latham  of  Mark  Lane,  London :  from  whom,  indeed,  old 
Doctor  Portman  had  recommended  Pen  to  get  a  supply  of 
port  and  sherry  on  going  to  college.  ''You  will  have,  no 
doubt,  to  entertain  Aour  3'oung  friends  at  Boniface  with  wine 
parties,"  the  honest  rector  had  remarked  to  the  lad.  "They 
used  to  be  customary  at  college  in  my  time,  and  I  would  ad- 
vise 3'ou  to  employ  an  honest  and  resjiectable  house  in  London 
for  3-our  small  stock  of  wine,  rather  than  to  have  recourse  to 
the  Oxbridge  tradesmen,  whose  liquor,  if  I  rememljer  rightly, 
was  both  deleterious  in  quality  and  exorbitant  in  price."  And 
the  obedient  3'oung  gentleman  took  the  Doctor's  advice,  and 
patronized  Messrs.  Binney  and  Latham  at  the  rector's  sug- 
gestion. 

So  when  he  wrote  orders  for  a  stock  of  wine  to  be  sent  down 
to  the  cellars  at  Fairoaks,  he  hinted  that  Messrs.  B.  and  L. 
might  send  in  his  university  account  for  wine  at  the  same  time 
with  the  Fairoaks  bill.  The  poor  widow  was  frightened  at  the 
amount.  But  Pen  laughed  at  her  old-fashioned  views,  said 
that  the  bill  was  moderate,  that  ever^'body  drank  claret  and 
champagne  now,  and,  finall}-,  the  widow  paid,  feeling  dimly 
that  the  expenses  of  her  household  were  increasing  considera- 
bl}',  and  that  her  narrow  income  would  scarce  suffice  to  meet 
them.  But  the}'  were  onl}'  occasional.  Pen  merely  came  home 
for  a  few  weeks  at  the  vacation.  Laura  and  she  might  pinch 
when  he  was  gone.  In  the  brief  time  he  was  with  them  ought 
they  not  to  make  him  happ}'? 

Arthur's  own  allowances  were  liberal  all  this  time  ;  indeed, 
much  more  so  than  those  of  the  sons  of  far  more  wealthy  men. 
Years  before,  the  thrifty  and  affectionate  John  I'endennis, 
whose  darling  project  it  had  ever  been  to  give  his  son  a  uni- 
versity education,  and  those  advantages  of  which  his  own 
father's  extravagance  had  deprived  him,  had  begun  laying  by 
a  store  of  mone}-  which  he  called  Arthur's  Education  Fund. 
Year  after  year  in  his  book  his  executors  found  entries  of 
sums  vested  as  A.E.F.,  and  during  the  period  subsequent  to 
her  husl)and's  decease,  and  before  Pen's  entr}'  at  college,  the 
widow  had    added    sundry  sums  to  this  fund,   so  that  when 


174  PENDENNIS. 

Arthur  went  up  to  Oxbridge  it  reached  no  inconsiderabie 
amount.  Let  him  be  liberally  allowanced,  was  Major  Pen- 
dennis's  maxim.  Let  him  make  his  first  entree  into  the  world 
as  a  gentleman,  and  take  his  place  with  men  of  good  rank  and 
station ;  after  giving  it  to  him,  it  will  be  his  own  duty  to  hold 
it.  There  is  no  such  bad  policy  as  stinting  a  boy  —  or  putting 
him  on  a  lower  allowance  than  his  fellows.  Arthur  will  have 
to  face  the  world  and  fight  for  himself  presently.  Meanwhile 
we  shall  have  procured  for  him  good  friends,  gentlemanly  hab- 
its, and  have  him  well  backed  and  well  trained  against  the  time 
when  the  real  struggle  comes.  And  these  liberal  opinions  the 
Major  probably  advanced  both  because  they  were  just,  and  be- 
cause he  was  not  dealing  with  his  own  mone^'. 

Thus  young  Pen,  the  only  son  of  an  estated  country  gen- 
tleman, with  a  good  allowance,  and  a  gentlemanlike  bearing 
and  person,  looked  to  be  a  lad  of  much  more  consequence  than 
he  was  really ;  and  was  held  by  the  Oxbridge  authorities, 
tradesmen,  and  under-graduates,  as  quite  a  young  buck  and 
member  of  the  aristocrac}'.  His  manner  was  frank,  brave, 
and  perhaps  a  little  impertinent,  as  becomes  a  high-spirited 
youth.  He  was  perfectly  generous  and  free-handed  with  his 
money,  which  seemed  pretty  plentiful.  He  loved  jovialitj-, 
and  had  a  good  voice  for  a  song.  Boat-racing  had  not  risen 
in  Pen's  time  to  the  fureur  w'hich,  as  we  are  given  to  under- 
stand, it  has  since  attained  in  the  university ;  and  riding  and 
tandem-driving  were  the  fashions  of  the  ingenuous  youth.  Pen 
rode  well  to  hounds,  appeared  in  pink,  as  became  a  young 
buck,  and  not  particularly  extravagant  in  equestrian  or  any 
other  amusement,  yet  managed  to  run  up  a  fine  bill  at  Nile's, 
the  livery  stable-keeper,  and  in  a  number  of  other  quarters. 
In  fact,  this  lucky  young  gentleman  had  almost  every  taste  to 
a  considerable  degree.  He  w^as  very  fond  of  books  of  all 
sorts :  Doctor  Portman  had  taught  him  to  like  rare  editions, 
and  his  own  taste  led  him  to  like  beautiful  bindings.  It  was 
marvellous  what  tall  copies,  and  gilding,  and  marbling,  and 
blind-tooling,  the  booksellers  and  binders  put  upon  Pen's 
book-shelves.  He  had  a  very  fair  taste  in  matters  of  art,  and 
a  keen  relish  for  prints  of  a  high  school  —  none  of  your 
French  Opera  Dancers,  or  tawdry  Racing  Prints,  such  as  had 
delighted  the  simple  eyes  of  Mr.  Spicer,"his  predecessor  —  but 
your  Stranges,  and  Rembrandt-etchings,  and  Wilkies  before 
the  letter,  with  which  his  apartments  were  furnished  presently 
in  the  most  perfect  good  taste,  as  was  allowed  in  the  univer- 
sity, where  this  young  fellow  got  no  small  reputation.     We 


PENDENNIS.  175 

have  menttoned  that  he  exhibited  a  certain  partiality  for  rings, 
jewellery,  and  fine  raiment  of  all  sorts  ;  and  it  must  be  owned 
that  Mr.  Pen,  during  his  time  at  the  university',  was  rather  a 
dress}-  man,  and  loved  to  array  himself  in  splendor.  He  and 
his  polite  friends  would  dress  themselves  out  with  as  much 
care  in  order  to  go  and  dine  at  each  other's  rooms,  as  other 
folks  would  who  were  going  to  enslave  a  mistress.  The}'  said 
he  used  to  wear  rings  over  his  kid  gloves,  which  he  always 
denies  ;  but  what  follies  will  not  youth  perpetrate  with  its  own 
admirable  gravity  and  simplicity?  That  he  took  perfumed 
baths  is  a  truth  ;  and  he  used  to  say  that  he  took  them  after 
meeting  certain  men  of  a  very  low  set  in  hall. 

In  Pen's  second  year,  when  Miss  Fotheringay  made  her 
chief  hit  in  London,  and  scores  of  prints  were  published  of  her, 
Pen  had  one  of  these  hung  in  his  bedroom,  and  confided  to  the 
men  of  his  set  how  awfull}',  how  wildl}',  how  madl}',  how  pas- 
sionatel}',  he  had  loved  that  woman.  He  showed  them  in  con- 
fidence the  verses  that  he  had  written  to  her,  and  his  brow 
would  darken,  his  e^es  roll,  his  chest  heave  with  emotion  as 
he  recalled  that  fatal  period  of  his  life,  and  described  the  woes 
and  agonies  which  he  had  suffered.  The  verses  were  copied 
out,  handed  about,  sneered  at,  admired,  passed  from  coterie  to 
coterie.  There  are  few  things  which  elevate  a  lad  in  the  esti- 
mation of  his  brother  boys,  more  than  to  have  a  character  for 
a  gi-eat  and  romantic  passion.  Perhaps  there  is  something 
noble  in  it  at  all  times  —  among  very  3'oung  men,  it  is  con- 
sidered heroic  —  Pen  was  pronounced  a  tremendous  fellow. 
They  said  he  had  almost  committed  suicide :  that  he  had 
fought  a  duel  with  a  baronet  about  her.  Freshmen  pointed 
him  out  to  each  other.  As  at  the  promenade  time  at  two 
o'clock  he  swaggered  out  of  college,  surrounded  by  his  cronies, 
he  was  famous  to  behold.  He  was  elaboratelv  attired.  He 
would  ogle  the  ladies  who  came  to  lionize  the  University,  and 
passed  before  him  on  the  arms  of  happy  gownsmen,  and  give 
his  opinion  upon  their  personal  charms,  or  their  toilettes,  with 
the  gravity  of  a  critic  whose  experience  entitled  him  to  speak 
with  authority.  Men  used  to  say  that  they  had  been  walking 
with  Pendennis,  and  were  as  pleased  to  be  seen  in  his  company 
as  some  of  us  would  be  if  we  walked  with  a  duke  down  Pall 
Mall.  He  and  the  Proctor  capped  each  other  as  they  met,  as 
if  they  were  rival  powers,  and  the  men  hardly  knew  which  was 
the  greater. 

In  fact,  in  the  course  of  his  second  year,  Arthur  Pendennis 
had  become  one  of  the  men  of  fashion  in  tlie  university.     It  is 


176  PENDENNIS. 

curious  to  watch  that  facile  admiration,  and  simple  fidelity  of 
youth.  They  hang  round  a  leader :  and  wonder  at  him,  and 
love  him,  and  imitate  him.  No  generous  bo}*  ever  lived,  I 
suppose,  that  has  not  had  some  wonderment  of  admiration  for 
another  boy  ;  and  Monsieur  Pen  at  Oxbridge  had  his  school, 
his  faithful  band  of  friends,  and  his  rivals.  When  the  young 
men  heard  at  the  haberdashers'  shops  that  Mr.  Pendennis,  of 
Boniface,  had  just  ordered  a  crimson  satin  cravat,  ^-ou  would 
see  a  couple  of  dozen  crimson  satin  cravats  in  Main  Street  in 
the  course  of  the  week  —  and  Simon,  the  Jeweller,  was  known 
to  sell  no  less  than  two  gross  of  Pendennis  pins,  from  a  pat- 
tern which  the  3'oung  gentleman  had  selected  in  his  shop. 

Now  if  any  person  with  an  arithmetical  turn  of  mind  will 
take  the  trouble  to  calculate  what  a  sum  of  money  it  would  cost 
a  young  man  to  indulge  freel}'  in  all  the  above  propensities 
which  we  have  said  Mr.  Pen  possessed,  it  will  be  seen  that  a 
young  fellow,  with  such  liberal  tastes  and  amusements,  must 
needs  in  the  course  of  two  or  three  years  spend  or  owe  a  A'ery 
handsome  sum  of  mone3\  We  have  said  our  friend  Pen  had 
not  a  calculating  turn.  No  one  propensity  of  his  was  outra- 
geousty  extravagant :  and  it  is  certain  that  Paddington's  tailor's 
account ;  Guttlebury's  cook's  bill  for  dinners  ;  Dilley  Tandy's 
bill  with  Finn,  the  print-seller,  for  Raphael-Morghens,  and 
Landseer  proofs,  and  Wormall's  dealings  with  Parkton,  the 
great  bookseller,  for  Aldine  editions,  black-letter  folios,  and 
richl}'  illuminated  Missals  of  the  XVI.  Century ;  and  Snaffle's 
or  Foker's  score  with  Nile  the  horse-dealer,  were,  each  and  all 
of  them,  incomparably  greater  than  any  little  bills  which  Mr. 
Pen  might  run  up  with  the  above-mentioned  tradesmen.  But 
Pendennis  of  Boniface  had  the  advantage  over  all  these  3'oung 
gentlemen,  his  friends  and  associates,  of  a  universalit\'  of  taste  : 
and  whereas  young  Lord  Paddington  did  not  care  two-pence  for 
the  most  beautiful  print,  or  to  look  into  any  gilt  frame  that  had 
not  a  mirror  within  it ;  and  Guttlebury  did  not  mind  in  the 
least  how  he  was  dressed,  and  had  an  aversion  for  horse  exer- 
cise, na}'  a  terror  of  it ;  and  Snaffle  never  read  any  printed 
works  but  the  "  Racing  Calendar,"  or  "Bell's  Life,"  or  cared 
for  any  manuscript  except  his  greasy  little  scrawl  of  a  betting- 
book  :  —  our  catholic-minded  young  friend  occupied  himself  in 
every  one  of  the  branches  of  science  or  pleasure  above-men- 
tioned, and  distinguished  himself  tolerably  in  each. 

Hence  young  Pen  got  a  prodigious  reputation  in  the  univer- 
sity, and  was  hailed  as  a  sort  of  Crichton  ;  and  as  for  the 
English  veBse  prize,  in  competition  for  which  we  have  seen  him 


PENDENNIS.  177 

busily  engaged  at  Fairoaks,  Jones  of  Jesus  carried  it  that  year 
certainl}',  but  the  undergraduates  thought  Pen's  a  much  finer 
poem,  and  he  had  his  verses  printed  at  his  own  expense,  and 
distributed  in  gilt  morocco  covers  amongst  his  acquaintance, 
I  found  a  copy  of  it  lately  in  a  dusty  corner  of  Mr.  Pen's  book- 
cases, and  have  it  before  me  this  minute,  bound  up  in  a  collec- 
tion of  old  Oxbridge  tracts,  university  statutes,  prize-poems  by 
successful  and  unsuccessful  candidates,  declamations  recited  in 
the  college  chapel,  speeches  delivered  at  tlie  Union  Debating 
Societ}',  and  inscribed  by  Arthur  with  his  name  and  college, 
Pendennis  —  Boniface  ;  or  presented  to  him  by  his  affectionate 
friend  Thompson  or  Jackson,  the  author.  How  strange  the 
epigraphs  look  in  those  half-boyish  hands,  and  what  a  thrill  the 
sight  of  the  documents  gives  one  after  the  lapse  of  a  few  lus- 
tres !  How  fate,  since  that  time,  has  removed  some,  estranged 
others,  dealt  awfully  with  all.  Many  a  hand  is  cold  that  wrote 
those  kindly  memorials,  and  that  we  pressed  in  the  confident 
and  generous  grasp  of  youthful  friendship.  What  passions  our 
friendships  were  in  those  old  days,  how  artless  and  void  of 
doubt !  How  the  arm  you  were  never  tired  of  having  linked  in 
3'ours  under  the  fair  college  avenues  or  by  the  river  side,  where 
it  washes  Magdalen  Gardens,  or  Christ  Church  Meadows,  or 
winds  by  Trinity  and  King's,  was  withdrawn  of  necessity,  when 
you  entered  presently  the  world,  and  each  parted  to  push  and 
struggle  for  himself  through  the  great  moli  on  the  way  through 
life  !  Are  we  the  same  men  now  that  wrote  those  inscriptions 
—  that  read  those  poems  ?  that  delivered  or  heard  those  essays 
and  speeches  so  simple,  so  pompous,  so  ludicrously  solemn ; 
parodied  so  artlessly  from  books,  and  spoken  with  smug  chubby 
faces,  and  such  an  admirable  aping  of  wisdom  and  gravity? 
Here  is  the  book  before  me  :  it  is  scarcely  fifteen  years  old. 
Here  is  Jack  moaning  with  despair  and  Byronic  misanthropy, 
whose  career  at  the  university  was  one  of  unmixed  milk-punch. 
Here  is  Tom's  daring  Essa}'  in  defence  of  suicide  and  of  repub- 
licanism in  general,  apropos  of  the  death  of  Roland  and  the 
(Tirondins  —  Tom's,  who  wears  the  starchest  tie  in  all  the 
diocese,  and  would  go  to  Smithfield  rather  that  eat  a  beefsteak 

on  a  Frida}'  in   Lent.     Here   is  Bob,  of  the Circuit,  who 

has  made  a  fortune  in  Railroad  Committees,  —  bellowing  out 
with  Tancred  and  Godfrey,  "On  to  the  breach,  ye  soldiers  of 
the  cross.  Scale  the  red  wall  and  swim  the  choking  foss.  Ye 
dauntless  archers,  twang  your  cross-bows  well;  On,  bill  and- 
battle-axe  and  mangonel !  Plv  battering-ram  and  hurtling 
catapult,  Jerusalem  is  ours  —  id  Deus  vult."    After  which  comes 

12 


178  PENDENNIS. 

a  mellifluous  description  of  the  gardens  of  vSharon  and  the  maids 
of  Salem,  and  a  prophecy  that  roses  shall  deck  the  entire  coun- 
try of  Syria,  and  a  speedy  reign  of  peace  be  established  —  all 
in  undeniably  decasyllabic  lines,  and  the  queerest  aping  of 
sense  and  sentiment  and  poetrj'.  And  there  are  Essajs  and 
Poems  along  with  these  grave  parodies,  and  boyish  exercises 
(which  are  at  once  frank  and  false,  and  so  mirthful,  yet,  some- 
how, so  mournful),  by  youthful  hands,  that  shall  never  write 
more.  Fate  has  intei'posed  darkly,  and  the  young  voices  are 
silent,  and  the  eager  brains  have  ceased  to  work.  This  one 
had  genius  and  a  great  descent,  and  seemed  to  be  destined  for 
honors  which  now  are  of  little  worth  m  him  :  that  had  virtue, 
learning,  genius  —  every  faculty-  and  endowment  which  might 
secure  love,  admiration,  and  worldly  fame  :  an  obscure  and 
soUtary  churchyard  contains  the  grave  of  many  fond  hopes,  and 
the  pathetic  stone  which  bids  them  farewell.  I  saw  the  sun 
shining  on  it  in  the  fall  of  last  year,  and  heard  the  sweet  village 
choir  raising  anthems  round  about.  What  boots  whether  it  be 
Westminster  or  a  little  countr}^  spire  which  covers  your  ashes, 
or  if,  a  few  days  sooner  or  later,  the  world  forgets  you  ? 

Amidst  these  friends  then,  and  a  host  more.  Pen  passed  more 
than  two  brilliant  and  happy  years  of  his  life.  He  had  his  fill 
of  pleasure  and  popularity.  No  dinner  or  supper  party  was 
complete  without  him  ;  and  Pen's  jovial  wit,  and  Pen's  songs, 
and  dashing  courage,  and  frank  and  manly  bearing,  charmed  all 
the  undergraduates.  Though  he  became  the  favorite  and  leader 
of  young  men  who  were  much  his  superiors  in  wealth  and 
station,  he  was  much  too  generous  to  endeavor  to  propitiate 
them  by  any  meanness  or  cringing  on  his  own  part,  and  would 
not  neglect  the  humblest  man  of  his  acquaintance  in  order  to 
curry  favor  with  the  richest  young  grandee  in  the  university. 
His  name  is  still  remembered  at  the  Union  Debating  Club,  as 
one  of  the  brilliant  orators  of  his  da}'.  By  the  way,  from  having 
been  an  ardent  Tory  in  his  Freshman's  3'ear,  his  principles  took 
a  sudden  turn  afterwards,  and  he  became  a  liberal  of  the  most 
violent  order.  He  avowed  himself  a  Dantonist,  and  asserted 
that  Louis  the  Sixteenth  was  served  right.  And  as  for  Charles 
the  First,  he  vowed  that  he  would  chop  off  that  monarch's  head 
with  his  own  right  hand  were  he  then  in  the  room  at  the  Union 
Debating  Club,  and  had  Cromwell  no  other  executioner  for  the 
traitor.  He  and  Lord  Magnus  Charters,  the  Marquis  of  Run- 
nymede's  son,  before  mentioned,  were  the  most  truculent  repub- 
licans of  their  day. 

There  are  reputations  of  this  sort  made  quite  independent  of 


PENDENNIS.  179 

the  collegiate  hierarchy,  in  the  republic  of  fjownsmen.  A  man 
may  be  famous  in  the  Honor-lists  and  entirely  unknown  to  the 
undergraduates  :  who  elect  kings  and  chieftains  of  their  own, 
whom  the}-  admire  and  obey,  as  negro-gangs  have  priA-ate  black 
sovereigns  in  their  own  body,  to  whom  the}'  pay  an  occult 
obedience,  besides  that  which  the}'  publich*  profess  for  their 
owners  and  drivers.  Among  the  young  ones  Pen  became  fa- 
mous and  popular :  not  that  he  did  much,  but  there  was  a 
general  determination  that  he  could  do  a  great  deal  if  he  chose. 
''  Ah,  if  Pendennis  of  Boniface  would  but  tr}-,"  the  men  said, 
"  he  might  do  anything."  He  was  backed  for  the  Greek  Ode 
won  by  Smith  of  Trinitv ;  everybody  was  sure  he  would  have 
the  Latin  hexameter  prize  which  Brown  of  St.  John's,  however, 
canned  off,  and  in  this  w^a}'  one  university  honor  after  another 
was  lost  by  him,  until,  after  two  or  three  failures,  Mr.  Pen  ceased 
to  compete.  But  he  got  a  declamation  prize  in  his  own  college, 
and  brought  home  to  his  mother  and  Laura  at  Fairoaks  a  set 
of  prize-books  begilt  with  the  college  arms,  and  so  big,  well- 
bound,  and  magnificent,  that  these  ladies  thought  there  had 
been  no  such  prize  ever  given  in  a  college  before  as  this  of 
Pen's,  and  that  he  had  won  the  ver}'  largest  honor  which  Ox- 
bridge was  capable  of  awarding. 

As  vacation  after  vacation  and  term  after  term  passed  away 
without  the  desired  news  that  Pen  had  sat  for  any  scholarshij. 
or  won  an}-  honor,  Doctor  Portman  grew  mightily  gloomy  ir 
his  behavior  towards  Arthur,  and  adopted  a  sulky  grandeur  o« 
deportment  towards  him,  which  the  lad  returned  by  a  similar 
haughtiness.  One  vacation  he  did  not  call  upon  the  Doctor  at 
all,  much  to  his  mother's  annoyance,  who  thought  that  it  was  a 
privilege  to  enter  the  Rectory-house  at  Clavering,  and  listened 
to  Dr.  Portman's  antique  jokes  and  stories,  though  ever  so 
often  repeated,  with  unfailing  venei'ation.  "  I  cannot  stand  the 
Doctor's  patronizing  air,"  Pen  said.  "  He's  too  kind  to  me,  a 
great  deal  too  fatherly.  I  have  seen  in  the  world  better  men 
than  him,  and  I  am  not  going  to  bore  myself  by  listening  to 
his  dull  old  stories."  The  tacit  feud  between  Pen  and  the 
Doctor  made  the  widow  nervous,  so  that  she  too  avoided 
Portman,  and  was  afraid  to  go  to  the  Rectory  when  Arthur  was 
at  home. 

One  Sunday  in  the  last  long  vacation,  the  wretched  boy 
pushed  his  rebellious  spirit  so  far  as  not  to  go  to  chui'ch,  and 
he  was  seen  at  the  gate  of  the  ClaA^ering  Arms  smoking  a 
cigar,  in  the  face  of  the  congregation  as  it  issued  Irom  St. 
Mar3''s.     There  was  an  awful  sensation  in  the  village  society, 


180  PENDENNIS. 

Portmtin  pioi)hesied  Pen's  ruin  afU'r  that,  and  groaned  in  spirit 
over  the  rebeUious  young  prodigal. 

So  did  Helen  tremble  in  her  heart,  and  little  Laura  —  Laura 
had  grown  to  be  a  fine  young  stripling  b}'  this  time,  graceful 
and  fair,  clinging  round  Helen  and  worshipping  her,  with  a  pas- 
sionate affection.  Both  of  these  women  felt  that  their  lioy  was 
changed.  He  was  no  longer  the  artless  Pen  of  old  days,  so 
brave,  so  artless,  so  impetuous,  and  tender.  His  face  looked 
careworn  and  haggard,  his  voice  had  a  deeper  sound,  and  tones 
more  sarcastic.  Care  seemed  to  be  pursuing  him  ;  but  he  only 
laughed  when  his  mother  questioned  him,  and  parried  her 
anxious  queries  with  some  scornful  jest.  Nor  did  he  spend 
much  of  his  vacations  at  home ;  he  went  on  visits  to  one 
great  friend  or  another,  and  scared  the  quiet  pair  at  Fairoaks 
by  stories  of  great  houses  whither  he  had  been  invited,  and  by 
talking  of  lords  without  their  titles. 

Honest  Harry  Foker,  who  had  been  the  means  of  introducing 
Arthur  Pendennis  to  that  set  of  young  men  at  the  university, 
from  whose  society  and  connections  Arthur's  uncle  expected 
that  the  lad  would  get  so  much  benefit ;  who  had  called  for 
Arthur's  first  song  at  his  first  supper-part}' ;  and  who  had  pre- 
sented him  at  the  Barmecide  Club,  where  none  but  the  very 
best  men  of  Oxbridge  were  admitted  (it  consisted  in  Pen's  time 
of  six  noblemen,  eight  gentlemen-pensioners,  and  twelve  of  the 
most  select  commoners  of  the  university),  soon  found  himself 
left  far  behind  by  the  3'oung  freshman  in  the  fashionable  world 
of  Oxbridge,  and  being  a  generous  and  worthy  fellow,  wdthout 
a  spark  of  env}'  in  his  composition,  was  exceedingly  pleased  at 
the  success  of  his  young  protege,  and  admired  Pen  quite  as  much 
as  any  of  the  other  youth  did.  It  was  he  who  followed  Pen  now, 
and  (juoted  his  sayings  ;  learned  his  songs,  and  retailed  them 
at  minor  supper-parties,  and  was  never  weary  of  hearing  them 
from  the  gifted  young  poet's  own  mouth  —  for  a  good  deal  of 
the  time  which  Mr.  Pen  might  have  emploj'ed  much  more  ad- 
vantageousl}'  in  the  pursuit  of  the  regular  scholastic  studies, 
was  given  up  to  the  composition  of  secular  ballads,  which  he 
sang  about  at  parties  according  to  university  wont. 

It  had  been  as  well  for  Arthur  if  the  honest  Foker  had  re- 
mained for  some  time  at  college,  for,  with  all  his  vivacity,  he 
w\as  a  prudent  3'oung  man,  and  often  curbed  Pen's  propensity 
to  extravagance  :  but  Foker's  collegiate  career  did  not  last  very 
long  after  Arthur's  entrance  at  Boniface.  Repeated  diflTerences 
with  the  university  authorities  caused  Mr.  Foker  to  quit  Ox- 
bridge in  an  untimely  manner.     He  would  persist  in  attending 


PENDENNIS.  181 

races  on  the  neighboring  Hungerlbrd  Heath,  in  spite  of  the 
injunctions  of  his  academic  superiors.  He  never  could  be  got 
to  frequent  the  cliapel  of  the  college  with  that  regularity  of 
piety  which  Alma  Mater  demands  from  her  children  ;  tandems, 
which  are  abominations  in  the  eyes  of  the  heads  and  tutors, 
were.  Foker's  greatest  delight,  and  so  reckless  was  his  driving 
and  frequent  the  accidents  and  upsets  out  of  his  drag,  that 
yen  called  taking  a  drive  with  him  taking  the  ''  Diversions  of 
Purley  ;  "  finally,  having  a  dinner-party  at  his  rooms  to  entertain 
some  friends  from  London,  nothing  would  satisfy'  Mr.  Foker 
but  painting  Mr.  Buck's  door  vermilion,  in  which  freak  he  was 
cauglit  by  the  proctor ;  and  although  young  Black  Strap,  the 
celebrated  negro-fighter,  who  was  one  of  Mr.  Foker's  distin- 
guished guests,  and  was  holding  the  can  of  paint  while  the 
young  artist  operated  on  the  door,  knocked  down  two  of  the 
proctor's  attendants  and  performed  prodigies  of  valor,  yet  these 
feats  rather  injured  than  served  Foker,  whom  the  proctor  knew 
very  well  and  who  was  taken  with  the  brush  in  his  hand,  sum- 
mai/ily  convened  and  sent  down  from  the  universit}'. 

The  tutor  wrote  a  ver}'  kind  and  feeling  letter  to  Lad}'  Agnes 
on  the  subject,  stating  that  everybody  was  fond  of  the  youth  ; 
that  he  never  meant  harm  to  any  mortal  creature  ;  that  he  for 
his  own  part  would  have  been  delighted  to  pardon  the  harmless 
little  boyish  frolic,  had  not  its  unhappy  publicity  rendered  it 
impossible  to  look  the  freak  over,  and  breathing  the  most  fervent 
wishes  for  the  3'oung  fellow's  welfare  — wishes  no  doubt  sincere, 
for  Foker,  as  we  know,  came  of  a  noble  famil}'  on  his  mother's 
side,  and  on  the  other  was  heir  to  a  great  number  of  thousand 
pounds  a  3'ear. 

"  It  don't  matter,"  said  Foker,  talking  over  the  matter  with 
Pen,  —  "a  little  sooner  or  a  little  later,  what  is  the  odds?  I 
should  have  been  plucked  for  my  little  go  again,  I  know  I 
should  —  that  Latin  I  cannot  screw  into  my  head,  and  ni}' 
mamma's  anguish  would  have  bi'oken  out  next  term.  The  Gov- 
ernor will  blow  like  an  old  grampus,  I  know  he  will, — well, 
we  must  stop  till  he  gets  his  wind  again.  I  shall  probably  go 
abroad  and  improve  my  mind  with  foreign  travel.  Yes,  parly 
vao's  the  ticket.  It'ly,  and  that  sort  of  thing.  I'll  go  to  Paris, 
and  learn  to  dance  and  complete  my  education.  But  it's  not 
me  I'm  anxious  about.  Pen.  As  long  as  people  drink  beer  I 
don't  care,  —  it's  about  you  I'm  doubtful,  my  bo}'.  You're 
going  too  fast,  and  can't  keep  up  the  pace,  I  tell  you.  It's  not 
the  fifty  30U  owe  me,  —  pay  it  or  not  when  you  like,  —  but  it's 
the  every-day  pace,  and  I  tell  you  it  will  kill  you.     Y«u're 


182  PENDENNIS. 

livin'  as  if  there  was  no  end  to  the  money  in  the  stockin'  at 
iiome.  You  oughtn't  to  give  dinners,  you  ought  to  eat  'em. 
Fellows  are  glad  to  have  3'ou.  You  oughtn't  to  owe  horse 
1>;Ms,  you  ought  to  ride  other  chaps'  nags.  You  know  no  more 
about'betting  than  1  do  about  algebra :  the  chaps  will  win  yoiu- 
money  as  sure  as  you  sport  it.  Hang  me  if  you  are  not  try- 
ing at  everything.  1  saw  you  sit  down  to  icarti  last  week  at 
Trumpington's,  and  taking  your  turn  with  the  bones  after  Ring- 
woocfs  supper.  They'll  beat  you  at  it,  Pen,  my  boy,  even  if 
they  play  on  the  square,  which  I  don't  say  they  don't,  noi- 
which  I  don't  say  they  do,  mind.  But  /  won't  play  with  'em. 
You're  no  matchfor  'em.  You  ain't  up  to  their  weight.  It's 
like  little  Black  Strap  standing  up  to  Tom  Spring,  —  the  Black's 
a  pretty  fighter,  but.  Law  bless  you,  his  arm  ain't  long  enough 
to  touch  Tom,  —  and  I  tell  you,  you're  going  it  with  fellers 
beyond  your  weight.  Look  here  —  If  you'll  promise  me  never 
to  bet  nor  touch  a  box  nor  a  card,  I'll  let  3'ou  oflT  the  two 
ponies." 

But  Pen,  laughingly,  said,  "that  though  it  wasn't  conven- 
ient to  him  to  pa}'  the  two  ponies  at  that  moment,  he  by  no 
means  wished  to  be  let  ofl'  any  just  debts  he  owed  ;  "  and  he  and 
Foker  parted,  not  without  many  dark  forebodings  on  the  lattcr's 
part  with  regard  to  his  friend,  who  Harry  thought  was  travelling 
speedily  on  the  road  to  ruin. 

•'One  must  do  at  Rome  as  Rome  does,"  Pen  said,  in  a 
dandified  manner,  jingling  some  sovereigns  in  his  waistcoat 
pocket.  "A  little  quiet  play  at  ecarU  can't  hurt  a  man  who 
pla3's  prett}'  well  —  I  came  away  fourteen  sovereigns  richer  fi'om 
Ringwood's  supper,  and,  gad!  I  wanted  the  money."  —  And 
\\Q  walked  off,  after  having  taken  leave  of  poor  Foker,  who  went 
away  without  any  beat  of  drum,  or  ofl'er  to  drive  the  coach  out 
of  Oxbridge,  to  superintend  a  little  dinner  which  he  was  going 
to  give  at  his  own  rooms  in  Boniface,  about  which  dinners,  the 
cook  of  the  college,  who  had  a  great  respect  for  Mr.  Pendennis, 
always  took  especial  pains  for  his  3'oung  favorite. 


PENDENNIS.  183 

CHAPTER  XIX. 

eake's  progress. 

So  in  Pen's  second  year  Major  Pendennis  paid  a  brief  visit 
to  his  nephew,  and  was  introduced  to  several  of  Pen's  university' 
friends  —  the  gentle  and  polite  Lord  Plinlimmon,  the  gallant 
and  open-hearted  Magnus  Charters,  the  sly  and  witt}'  Harland  ; 
the  intrepid  llingwood,  who  was  called  Rupert  in  the  Union 
Debating  Club,  from  his  opinions  and  the  braver}-  of  his  blun- 
ders ;  Broadbent,  styled  Barebones  Broadbent  from  the  repub- 
lican nature  of  his  opinions  (he  was  of  a  dissenting  family  from 
Bristol,  and  a  perfect  Boanerges  of  debate)  ;  and  Bloundell- 
Bloundell,  whom  Mr.  Pen  entertained  at  a  dinner  whereof  his 
uncle  was  the  chief  guest. 

The  Major  said,  "  Pen,  m}'  boy,  your  dinner  went  off  a 
merveille  ;  you  did  the  honors  very  nicely  —  3-ou  cai'ved  well  — 
I  am  glad  you  learned  to  carve  —  it  is  done  on  the  side-board 
now  in  most  good  houses,  but  is  still  an  important  point,  and 
may  aid  3'ou  in  middle-life  —  young  Lord  Plinlimmon  is  a  very 
amiable  young  man,  quite  the  image  of  his  dear  mother  (whom 
I  knew  as  Lady  iVquila  Brownbill)  ;  and  Lord  Magnus's  repub- 
licanism will  wear  otf —  it  sits  prettily  enough  on  a  3'oung 
patrician  in  earl}'  life,  though  nothing  is  so  loathsome  among 
persons  of  our  rank  —  Mr.  Broadbent  seems  to  have  much  elo- 
quence and  considerable  reading  ,  }our  friend  Foker  is  always 
delightful ;  but  your  acquaintance,  Mr.  Bloundell,  struck  me  as 
in  all  respects  a  most  ineligible  young  man." 

*'  Bless  my  soul,  sir,  Bloundell-Bloundell  1  "  cried  Pen,  laugh- 
ing: "  why,  sir,  he's  the  most  popular  man  of  the  university. 

He  was  in  the Dragoons  before  he  came  up.     We  elected 

him  of  the  Barmecides  the  first  week  he  came  up  —  had  a 
special  meeting  on  purpose  —  he's  of  an  excellent  family  — 
Suffolk  Bloundells,  descended  from  Richard's  Blondel,  bear  a 
harp  in  chief — and  motto  O  Mong  Roy." 

"  A  man  may  have  a  very  good  coat-of-arms,  and  be  a  tiger, 
my  boy,"  the  Major  said,  chipping  his  egg;  "that  man  is  a 
tiger,  mark  my  word  —  a  low  man.  I  will  lay  a  wager  that  he 
left  his  regiment,  which  was  a  good  one  (for  a  more  respectable 
man  than  m}'  friend.  Lord  Martingale,  never  sat  in  a  saddle) , 
in  bad  odor.     There  is  the  unmistakable  look  of  slang  and  bad 


184  PENDENNIS. 

habits  about  this  Mr.  Bloundell.  He  frequents  low  gambhng- 
houses  and  billiard  hells,  sir  —  he  haunts  third-rate  clubs  —  1 
know  he  does.  I  know  by  his  st^-le.  I  never  was  mistaken  in 
my  man  yet.  Did  3'ou  remark  the  quantit}^  of  rings  and  jew- 
ellery he  wore  ?  That  person  has  Scamp  written  on  his  counte- 
nance, if  an}'  man  ever  had.  Mark  my  words  and  avoid  him. 
Let  us  turn  the  conversation.  The  dinner  was  a  leetle  too  fine, 
but  I  don't  object  to  your  making  a  few  extra /rais  when  you 
receive  friends.  Of  course  you  don't  do  it  often,  and  onl}'  those 
whom  it  is  your  interest  to  feter.  The  cutlets  were  excellent, 
and  the  souffle  uncommon!}'  light  and  good.  The  third  bottle 
of  champagne  was  not  necessary  ;  but  you  have  a  good  income, 
and  as  long  as  30U  keep  within  it,  I  shall  not  quarrel  with  you, 
ray  dear  bo}." 

Poor  Pen !  the  worthy  uncle  little  knew  how  often  those 
dinners  took  place,  while  the  reckless  young  Amphitryon  de- 
lighted to  show  his  hospitalit}'  and  skill  in  gourmandise .  There 
is  no  art  about  which  boys  are  more  anxious  to  have  an  air  of 
knowingness.  A  taste  and  knowledge  of  wines  and  cookery 
appears  to  them  to  be  the  sign  of  an  accomplished  roue  and 
manly  gentleman.  Pen,  in  his  character  of  Admirable  Crichton , 
thought  it  necessary  to  be  a  great  judge  and  practitioner  of 
dinners  ;  we  have  just  said  how  the  college  cook  respected  him, 
and  shall  soon  have  to  deplore  that  that  worthy  man  so  blindly 
trusted  our  Pen.  In  the  third  year  of  the  lad's  residence  at 
Oxbridge,  his  staircase  was  by  no  means  encumbered  with 
dish-covers  and  desserts,  and  waiters  carrying  in  dishes,  and 
skips  opening  iced  champagne  ;  crowds  of  different  sorts  of 
attendants,  with  faces  sulky  or  piteous,  hung  about  the  outer 
oak,  and  assailed  the  unfortunate  lad  as  he  issued  out  of  his 
den. 

Nor  did  his  guardian's  advice  take  an}'  effect,  or  induce  Mr. 
Pen  to  avoid  the  society  of  the  disreputable  Mr.  Bloundell. 

The  young  magnates  of  the  neighboring  great  College  of 
St.  George's,  who  regarded  Pen,  and  in  whose  society  he  lived, 
were  not  taken  in  by  Bloundell's  flashy  graces,  and  rakish  airs 
of  fashion.  Broadbent  called  him  Captain  Macheath,  and  said 
lie  would  live  to  be  hanged.  Foker,  during  his  brief  stay  at 
the  university  with  Macheatli,  with  characteristic  caution,  de- 
clined to  say  anything  in  the  Captain's  disfavor,  but  hinted  to 
Pen  that  he  had  better  have  him  for  a  partner  at  whist  than 
play  against  him,  and  better  back  him  at  ecarte  than  bet  on  the 
other  side.  "  You  see,  he  plays  better  than  you  do,  Pen,"  was 
the  astute  young  gentleman's  remark:  "he  plays  uncommon 


PENDENNIS.  185 

well,  the  Captain  docs  ;  —  and  Pen,  I  wouldn't  take  the  odds 
too  freely  from  him,  if  I  was  you.  I  don't  think  he's  too  flush 
of  mone}',  the  Captain  ain't."  But  be^'ond  these  dark  sug- 
gestions and  generalities,  the  cautious  Foker  could  not  be  got 
to  speak. 

Not  that  his  advice  would  have  had  more  weight  with  a 
headstrong  young  man,  than  advice  commonly  has  with  a  lad 
who  is  determined  on  pursuing  his  own  wa}-.  Pen's  appetite 
for  pleasure  was  insatiable,  and  he  rushed  at  it  wherever  it  pre- 
sented itself,  with  an  eagerness  which  bespoke  his  Hevy  consti- 
tution and  3'outhful  health.  He  called  taking  pleasure  "  seeing 
life,"  and  quoted  well-known  maxims  from  Terence,  from  Hor- 
ace, from  Shakspeare,  to  show  that  one  should  do  all  that 
might  become  a  man.  He  bade  fair  to  be  utterly  used  up  and 
a  roue^  in  a  few  years,  if  he  were  to  continue  at  the  pace  at 
which  he  was  going. 

One  night  after  a  supper-party  in  college,  at  which  Pen  and 
Macheath  had  been  present,  and  at  which  a  little  quiet  vingt-et- 
un  had  been  plaj^ed,  as  the  men  had  taken  their  caps  and  were 
going  awa}',  after  no  great  losses  or  winnings  on  any  side,  Mr. 
Bloundell  playfully  took  up  a  green  wine-glass  from  the  supper- 
table,  which  had  been  destined  to  contain  iced  cup,  but  into 
which  he  inserted  something  still  more  pernicious,  namely  a 
pair  of  dice,  which  the  gentleman  took  out  of  his  waistcoat 
pocket,  and  put  into  the  glass.  Then  giving  the  glass  a  grace- 
ful wave  which  showed  that  his  hand  was  quite  experienced  in 
the  throwing  of  dice,  he  called  seven's  the  main,  and  whisking 
the  ivory  cubes  gently  on  the  table,  swept  them  up  lightly  again 
from  the  cloth,  and  repeated  this  process  two  or  three  times. 
The  other  men  looked  on,  Pen,  of  course,  among  the  number, 
who  had  never  used  the  dice  as  yet,  except  to  play  a  humdrum 
game  of  backgammon  at  home. 

Mr.  Bloundell,  who  had  a  good  voice,  began  to  troll  out  the 
chorus  from  ''  Robert  the  Devil,"  an  Opera  then  in  great  vogue, 
in  which  chorus  many  of  the  men  joined,  especialh'  Pen,  who 
was  in  very  high  spirits,  having  won  a  good  number  of  shillings 
a»d  half-crowns  at  the  vingt-et-un  —  and  presently,  instead  of 
going  home,  most  of  the  party  were  seated  round  the  table 
playing  at  dice,  the  green  glass  going  round  from  hand  to  hand 
until  Pen  finally  shivered  it,  after  throwing  six  mains. 

From  that  night  Pen  plunged  into  the  delights  of  the  game 

of  hazard,  as  eagerh'  as  it  was  his  custom  to  pursue  an}'  new 

pleasure.     Dice  can  be   played  of  mornings  as  well   as  after 

dinner  or  supper.      Bloundell  would  come  into  Pen's  rooms 

~      ~  7 


186  PENDENNIS. 

after  breakfast,  and  it  was  astonishing  how  quick  the  time 
passed  as  the  bones  were  rattling.  They  had  little  quiet  parties 
with  closed  doors,  and  Bloundell  devised  a  box  lined  with  felt, 
so  that  the  dice  should  make  no  noise,  and  their  tell-tale  rattle 
not  bring  the  sharp-eared  tutors  up  to  the  rooms.  Bloundell, 
Ringwood,  and  Pen  were  once  very  nearly  caught  by  Mr.  Buck, 
who°  passing  in  the  Quadrangle,  thought  he  heard  the  words 
''  Two  to  one  on  the  caster,"  through  Pen's  open  window ;  but 
when  the  tutor  got  into  Arthur's  rooms  he  found  the  lads  with 
three  Homers  before  them,  and  Pen  said,  he  was  trying  to 
coach  the  two  other  men,  and  asked  Mr.  Buck  with  great 
gi-avity  what  was  the  present  condition  of  the  River  Scamander, 
and  whether  it  was  navigable  or  no  ? 

Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis  did  not  win  much  money  in  these 
transactions  with  Mr.  Bloundell,  or  indeed  gain  good  of  any 
kind  except  a  knowledge  of  the  odds  at  hazard,  which  he 
might  have  learned  out  of  books. 

One  Easter  vacation,  when  Pen  had  announced  to  his 
mother  and  uncle  his  intention  not  to  go  down,  but  stay  at 
Oxbridge  and  read,  Mr.  Pen  was  nevertheless  induced  to  take 
a  brief  visit  to  London  in  company  with  his  friend  Mr.  Bloun- 
dell. They  put  up  at  a  hotel  in  Covent  Garden,  where  Bloun- 
dell had  a^tick,  as  he  called  it,  and  took  the  pleasures  of  the 
town  very  freely  after  the  wont  of  young  university  men. 
Bloundell  still  belonged  to  a  military  club,  whither  he  took 
Pen  to  dine  once  or  twice  (the  young  men  would  drive  thither 
in  a  cab,  trembling  lest  they  should  meet  Major  Pendennis  on 
his  beat  in  Pall  Mall),  and  here  Pen  was  introduced  to  a  num- 
ber of  gallant  young  fellows  with  spurs  and  mustachios,  with 
whom  he  drank  pale-ale  of  mornings  and  beat  the  town  of  a 
night.  Here  he  saw  a  deal  of  life,  indeed :  nor  in  his  career 
about  the  theatres  and  singing-houses  which  these  roaring 
young  blades  frequented,  was  he  very  likely  to  meet  his  guar- 
dian. One  night,  nevertheless,  they  were  very  near  to  each 
other :  a  plank  only  separating  Pen,  who  was  in  the  boxes  of 
the  Museum  Theatre,  from  the  Major,  who  was  in  Lord  Steyne's 
box,  along  with  that  venerated  nobleman.  The  Fotheringay 
was  in  the  pride  of  her  glory.  She  had  made  a  hit :  that  is, 
she  had  drawn  very  good  houses  for  nearl}'  a  year,  had  starred 
the  provinces  with  great  eclat,  had  come  back  to  shine  in  Lon- 
don with  somewhat  diminished  lustre,  and  now  was  acting  with 
"ever  increasing  attraction,  &c.,"  "triumph  of  the  good  old 
British  drama,"  as  tlie  play-bills  avowed,  to  houses  in  which 
there  was  plenty  of  room  for  anybody  who  wanted  to  see  her. 


PENDENNIS.  187 

It  was  not  the  first  time  Pen  had  seen  her,  since  that  memo- 
rable day  when  the  two  had  parted  in  Chatteris.  In  the  pre- 
vious 3'ear,  when  the  town  was  making  much  of  her,  and  the 
press  lauded  her  beauty.  Pen  had  found  a  pretext  for  coming 
to  London  in  term-time,  and  had  rushed  off  to  the  theatre  to 
see  his  old  flame.  He  recollected  it  rather  than  renewed  it. 
He  remembered  how  ardently  he  used  to  be  on  the  look-out  at 
Chatteris,  when  the  speech  before  Ophelia's  or  Mrs.  Haller's 
entrance  on  the  stage  was  made  by  the  proper  actor.  Now,  as 
the  actor  spoke,  he  had  a  sort  of  feeble  thrill :  as  the  house 
began  to  thunder  with  applause,  and  Ophelia  entered  with  her 
old  bow  and  sweeping  curtsy,  Pen  felt  a  slight  shock  and 
blushed  ver}-  much  as  he  looked  at  her,  and  could  not  help 
thinking  that  all  the  house  was  regarding  him.  He  hardly 
heard  her  for  the  first  part  of  the  play  :  and  he  thought  with  such 
rage  of  the  humiliation  to  which  she  had  subjected  him,  that 
he  began  to  fancy  he  was  jealous  and  in  love  with  her  still. 
But  that  illusion  did  not  last  very  long.  He  ran  round  to  the 
stage  door  of  the  theatre  to  see  her  if  possible,  but  he  did 
not  succeed.  She  passed  indeed  under  his  nose  with  a  female 
companion,  but  he  did  not  know  her,  — nor  did  she  recognize 
him.  The  next  night  he  came  in  late,  and  stayed  very  quietly 
for  the  after- piece,  and  on  the  third  and  last  night  of  his  stay  in 
London  —  wh}"  Taglioni  was  going  to  dance  at  the  Opera,  — 
Taglioni !  and  there  was  to  be  Don  Giovanni,  which  he  admired 
of  all  things  in  the  world :  so  Mr.  Pen  went  to  Don  Giovanni 
and  Taglioni. 

This  time  the  illusion  about  her  was  quite  gone.  She  was 
not  less  handsome,  but  she  was  not  the  same,  somehow.  The 
light  was  gone  out  of  her  eyes  which  used  to  flash  there,  or 
Pen's  no  longer  were  dazzled  by  it.  The  rich  voice  spoke  as  of 
old,  yet  it  did  not  make  Pen's  bosom  thrill  as  formerly.  He 
thought  he  could  recognize  the  brogue  underneath :  the  accents 
seemed  to  him  coarse  and  false.  It  annoyed  him  to  hear  the 
same  emphasis  on  the  same  words,  onl}'  uttered  a  little  louder : 
worse  than  this,  it  annoyed  him  to  think  that  he  should  ever 
have  mistaken  that  loud  imitation  for  genius,  or  melted  at  those 
mechanical  sobs  and  sighs.  He  felt  that  it  was  in  another  life 
almost,  that  it  Avas  another  man  who  had  so  madly  loved  her. 
He  was  ashamed  and  bitterly  humiliated,  and  very  lonely.  Ah, 
poor  Pen  !  the  delusion  is  better  than  the  truth  sometimes,  and 
fine  dreams  than  dismal  waking. 

They  went  and  had  an  uproarious  supper  that  night, 
and   Mr.   Pen  had  a  fine   headache  tiie  next  morning,   with 


188  PENDENNIS. 

which  he  went  back  to  Oxbridge,  having  spent  all  Lis  ready 
money. 

As  all  this  narrative  is  taken  from  Pen's  own  confessions,  so 
that  the  reader  may  be  assured  of  the  truth  of  every  word  of 
it,  and  as  Pen  himself  never  had  any  accurate  notion  of  the 
manner  in  which  he  spent  his  money,  and  plunged  himself  in 
much  deeper  pecuniary  difficulties,  during  his  luckless  residence 
at  Oxbridge  University,  it  is,  of  course,  impossible  for  me  to 
give  any  accurate  account  of  his  involvements,  beyond  that 
general  notion  of  his  way  of  life,  which  we  have  sketched  a 
few  pages  back.  He  does  not  speak  too  hardly  of  the  roguery 
of  the  university  tradesmen,  or  of  those  in  London  whom  he 
honored  with  his  patronage  at  the  outset  of  his  career.  Even 
Finch,  the  money-lender,  to  whom  Bloundell  introduced  him, 
and  with  whom  he  had  various  transactions,  in  which  the  young 
7ascars  signature  appeared  upon  stamped  paper,  treated  him, 
according  to  Pen's  own  account,  with  forbearance,  and  never 
mulcted  him  of  more  than  a  hundred  per  cent.  The  old  college- 
cook,  his  fervent  admirer,  made  him  a  private  bill,  offered  to 
send  him  in  dinners  up  to  the  very  last,  and  never  would  have 
pressed  his  account  to  his  dying  da}^  There  was  that  kindness 
and  frankness  about  Arthur  Pendennis,  which  won  most  people 
who  came  in  contact  with  him,  and  which,  if  it  rendered  him 
an  eas}'  prey  to  rogues,  got  him,  perhaps,  more  good  will  than 
he  merited  from  man}'  honest  men.  It  was  impossible  to  resist 
his  good-nature,  or,  in  his  worst  moments,  not  to  hope  for  his 
rescue  from  utter  ruin. 

At  the  time  of  his  full  career  of  university  pleasure,  he 
would  leave  the  ga^'est  party  to  go  and  sit  with  a  sick  friend. 
He  never  knew  the  difference  between  small  and  great  in  the 
treatment  of  his  acquaintances,  however  much  the  unlucky 
lad's  tastes,  which  were  of  the  sumptuous  order,  led  him  to 
prefer  good  society  ;  he  was  onlj'  too  ready  to  share  his  guinea 
jwith  a  poor  friend,  and  when  he  got  mone\'^  had  an  irresistible 
propensit}^  for  pajdng,  which  he  never  could  conquer  thi'ough 
life. 

In  his  third  3^ear  at  college,  the  duns  began  to  gather  awfully 
round  about  him,  and  there  was  a  levee  at  his  oak  which  scan- 
dalized the  tutors,  and  would  have  scared  many  a  stouter  heart. 
With  some  of  these  he  used  to  battle,  some  he  would  bully 
(under  Mr.  Bloundell's  directions,  who  was  a  master  in  this 
art,  though  he  took  a  degree  in  no  other),  and  some  depre- 
cate. And  it  is  reported  of  him  that  little  Mary  Frodsham,  the 
daughter  of  a  certain  poor  gilder  and  frame-maker,  whom  Mr. 


PENDENNIS.  189 

Pen  had  thought  fit  to  emplo}-,  and  who  had  made  a  number  of 
beautiful  frames  for  his  fine  prints,  coming  to  Pendennis  with  a 
piteous  tale  that  her  father  was  ill  wath  ague,  and  that  there 
was  an  execution  in  their  house.  Pen  in  an  anguish  of  remorse 
rushed  away,  pawned  his  grand  watch  and  every  single  article 
of  jeweller^'  except  two  old  gold  sleeve-buttons,  which  had 
belonged  to  his  father,  and  rushed  with  the  proceeds  to  Frod- 
sham's  shop,  where,  with  tears  in  his  e^es,  and  the  deepest  re- 
pentance and  humiUty,  he  asked  the  poor  tradesman's  pardon. 

This,  young  gentlemen,  is  not  told  as  an  instance  of  Pen's 
virtue,  but  rather  of  his  weakness.  It  would  have  been  much 
more  virtuous  to  have  had  no  prints  at  all.  He  still  owed  for 
the  baubles  which  he  sold  in  order  to  pay  Frodsham's  bill,  and 
his  mother  had  cruell}'  to  pinch  herself  in  order  to  discharge 
the  jewellers'  account,  so  that  she  was  in  the  end  the  sufferer 
by  the  lad's  impertinent  fancies  and  follies.  We  are  not 
presenting  Pen  to  you  as  a  hero  or  a  model,  only  as  a 
lad,  who,  in  the  midst  of  a  thousand  vanities  and  weaknesses, 
has  as  yet  some  generous  impulses,  and  is  not  altogether  dis- 
honest. 

We  have  said  it  was  to  the  scandal  of  Mr.  Buck  the  tutor 
that  Pen's  extravagances  became  known :  from  the  manner  in 
which  he  entered  college,  the  associates  he  kept,  and  the  intro- 
ductions of  Doctor  Portman  and  the  Major,  Buck  for  a  long  time 
thought  that  his  pupil  was  a  man  of  large  property,  and  won- 
dered rather  that  he  only  wore  a  plain  gown.  Once  on  going 
up  to  London  to  the  levee  with  an  address  from  His  Majesty's 
Loyal  University  of  Oxbridge,  Buck  had  seen  Major  Penden- 
nis at  St.  James's  in  conversation  with  two  knights  of  the  gar- 
ter, in  the  carriage  of  one  of  whom  the  dazzled  tutor  saw  the 
Major  whisked  away  after  the  levee.  He  asked  Pen  to  wine 
the  instant  he  came  back,  let  him  ofl"  from  chapels  and  lectures 
more  than  ever,  and  felt  perfectly  sure  that  he  was  a  young 
gentleman  of  large  estate. 

Thus,  he  w^as  thunderstruck  when  he  heard  the  truth,  and 
received  a  dismal  confession  from  Pen.  His  university  debts 
were  large,  and  the  tutor  had  nothing  to  do,  and  of  course  Pen 
did  not  acquaint  him,  with  his  London  debts.  What  man  ever 
does  tell  all  when  pressed  b}-  his  friends  about  his  liabilities? 
The  tutor  learned  enough  to  know  that  Pen  was  poor,  that  he 
had  spent  a  handsome,  almost  a  magnificent  allowance,  and 
had  raised  around  him  such  a  fine  crop  of  debts,  as  it  would  be 
very  hard  work  for  any  man  to  mow  down  ;  for  there  is  no 
olant  that  grows  so  rapidly  when  once  it  has  taken  root. 


190  PENDENNIS. 

Perhaps  it  was  because  she  was  so  tender  and  good  that 
Pen  was  terrified  lest  his  mother  should  know  of  his  sins.  "I 
can't  bear  to  break  it  to  her,"  he  said  to  the  tutor  in  an  agony 
of  grief,  "  Oh !  sir,  I've  been  a  villain  to  her  " —  and  he  repented, 
and  he  wished  he  had  the  time  to  come  over  again,  and  he 
asked  himself,  "  Wh}-,  why  did  his  uncle  insist  upon  the  necessity 
of  living  with  great  people,  and  in  how  much  did  all  his  grand 
acquaintance  profit  him?  " 

They  were  not  shy,  but  Pen  thought  they  were,  and  slunk 
from  them  dui'ing  his  last  terms  at  college.  He  was  as  gloomy 
as  a  death's-head  at  parties,  which  he  avoided  of  his  own  part, 
or  to  which  his  young  friends  soon  ceased  to  invite  him.  EA'ery- 
body  knew  that  Pendennis  was  "hard  up."  That  man  Bloun- 
dell,  who  could  pay  nobody,  and  who  was  ob'iged  to  go  down 
after  thi*ee  terms,  was  his  ruin,  the  men  said.  His  melancholy 
figure  might  be  seen  shirking  about  the  lonely  quadrangles  in 
his  battered  old  cap  and  torn  gown,  and  he  who  had  been  the 
pride  of  the  university  but  a  year  before,  the  man  wliom  all  the 
young  ones  loved  to  look  at,  was  now  the  object  of  conversa- 
tion at  freshmen's  wine  parties,  and  they  spoke  of  him  with 
wonder  and  awe. 

At  last  came  the  Degree  Examinations.  Man}'  a  young 
man  of  his  year  whose  hob-nailed  shoes  Pen  had  derided,  and 
whose  face  or  coat  he  had  caricatured  —  many  a  man  whom  he 
had  treated  with  scorn  in  the  lecture-room  or  crushed  with  his 
eloquence  in  the  debating  club  —  many  of  his  own  set  who  had 
not  half  his  brains,  but  a  little  regularity'  and  constancy  of 
occupation,  took  high  places  in  the  honoi's  or  passed  with  de- 
cent credit.  And  where  in  the  list  was  Pen  the  superb.  Pen 
the  wit  and  dand}-.  Pen  the  poet  and  orator?  Ah,  where  was 
Pen  the  widow's  darling  and  sole  pride?  Let  us  hide  our 
heads,  and  shut  up  the  page.  The  lists  came  out ;  and  a  dread- 
ful rumor  rushed  through  the  university,  that  Pendennis  of 
Boniface  was  plucked. 


PENDENNIS.  19J 

CHAPTER   XX. 

FLIGHT    AFTER    DEFEAT. 

DmuNG  the  latter  part  of  Pen's  residence  at  the  University 
of  Oxbridge,  his  uncle's  partiality  had  gi-eatly  increased  for  the 
lad.  The  Major  was  proud  of  Arthur,  who  had  high  spirits, 
frank  manners,  a  good  person,  and  high  gentlemanlike  bearing. 
It  pleased  the  old  London  bachelor  to  see  Pen  walking  with 
the  young  patricians  of  his  university,  and  he  (who  was  never 
known  to  entertain  his  friends,  and  whose  stinginess  had  passed 
into  a  sort  of  byword  among  some  wags  at  the  club,  who  envied 
his  man}-  engagements,  and  did  not  choose  to  consider  his  pov- 
erty) was  charmed  to  give  his  nephew  and  the  young  lords 
snug  little  dinners  at  his  lodgings,  and  to  regale  them  with 
good  claret  and  his  very  best  bons  mots  and  stories :  some  of 
which  would  be  injured  by  the  repetition,  for  the  Major's  manner 
of  telling  them  was  incomparably  neat  and  careful ;  and  others, 
whereof  the  repetition  would  do  good  to  nobody.  He  paid  his 
court  to  their  parents  through  the  young  men,  and  to  himself  as 
it  were  by  their  company.  He  made  more  than  one  visit  to 
Oxbridge,^  where  the  young  fellows  were  amused  by  entertain- 
ing the  old  gentleman,  and  gave  parties  and  breakfasts  and 
fetes,  partly  to  joke  him  and  partly  to  do  him  honor.  He  plied 
them  with  his  stories.  He  made  himself  juvenile  and  hilarious 
in  the  company  of  the  young  lords.  He  went  to  hear  Pen  at  a 
grand  debate  at  the  Union,  crowed  and  cheered,  and  rapped  his 
stick  in  chorus  with  the  cheers  of  the  men,  and  was  astounded 
at  the  boy's  eloquence  and  fire.  He  thought  he  had  got  a  young 
Pitt  for  a  nephew.  He  had  an  almost  paternal  fondness  for 
Pen.  He  wrote  to  the  lad  letters  with  playful  advice  and  the 
news  of  the  town.  He  bragged  about  Arthur  at  his  Clubs,  and 
introduced  him  with  pleasure  into  his  conversation  ;  saying,  that, 
£gaJ,  the  young  fellows  were  putting  the  old  ones  to  the  wall  -, 
that  the  lads  who  were  coming  up,  3'oung  Lord  Plinlimmon,  a 
friend  of  my  boy,  young  Lord  Magnus  Charters,  a  chum  of  my 
scapegrace,  &c.,  would  make  a  greater  figure  in  the  world  than 
ever  their  fathers  had  done  before  them.  He  asked  permission 
to  bring  Arthur  to  a  grand  fete  at  Gaunt  House  ;  saw  him  with 
ineffable  satisfaction  dancing  with  the  sisters  of  the  young 
noblemen  before  mentioned  ;  and  gave  himself  as  much  trouble 


192  PENDENNIS. 

to  procure  cards  of  invitation  for  the  lad  to  some  good  houses, 
fis  if  h(;  had  been  a  mamma  with  a  daughter  to  marry,  and  not 
an  old  half-pay  officer  in  a  wig.  And  he  boasted  everywhere  of 
the  boy's  great  talents,  and  remarkable  oratorical  powers  ;  and 
of  the  lirilliant  degree  he  was  going  to  take.  Lord  Runnymede 
would  take  him  on  his  embassy,  or  the  Duke  would  bring  him  in 
for  one  of  his  boroughs,  he  wrote  over  and  over  again  to  Helen  ; 
who,  for  her  part,  was  too  ready  to  believe  anjthing  that  any- 
body chose  to  say  in  favor  of  her  son. 

And  all  this  pride  and  affection  of  uncle  and  mother  had 
been  trampled  down  b}'  Pen's  wicked  extravagance  and  idle- 
ness !  I  don't  env3'  Pen's  feelings  (as  the  phrase  is),  as  he 
thought  of  what  he  had  done.  He  had  slept,  and  the  tortoise 
had  won  the  race.  He  had  marred  at  its  outset  what  might 
have  been  a  brilliant  career.  He  had  dipped  ungenerously  into 
a  generous  mother's  purse  ;  basely  and  recklessly  spilt  her  little 
cruse.  Oh !  it  was  a  coward  hand  that  could  strike  and  rob 
a  creature  so  tender.  And  if  Pen  felt  the  wrong  which  he  had 
done  to  others,  are  we  to  suppose  that  a  young  gentleman  of  his 
vanit}'  did  not  feel  still  more  keenl}'  the  shame  he  had  brought 
upon  himself?  Let  us  be  assured  that  there  is  no  more  cruel 
remorse  than  that ;  and  no  groans  more  piteous  than  those 
of  wounded  self-love.  Like  Joe  Miller's  friend,  the  Senior 
Wrangler,  who  bowed  to  the  audience  from  his  box  at  the  play, 
because  he  and  the  king  happened  to  enter  the  theatre  at  the  same 
time,  only  with  a  fatuity  by  no  means  so  agreeable  to  himself, 
poor  Arthur  Pendennis  felt  perfectly  convinced  that  all  England 
would  remark  the  absence  of  his  name  from  the  examination- 
lists,  and  talk  about  his  misfortune.  His  wounded  tutor,  his 
many  duns,  the  skip  and  bed-maker  who  waited  upon  him, 
the  undergraduates  of  his  own  time  and  the  3'ears  below  him, 
whom  he  had  patronized  or  scorned  —  how  could  he  bear  to 
look  any  of  them  in  the  face  now?  He  rushed  to  his  rooms, 
into  which  he  shut  himself,  and  there  he  penned  a  letter  to  his 
tutor,  full  of  thanks,  regards,  remorse,  and  despair,  requesting 
that  his  name  might  be  taken  off  the  college  books,  and  inti- 
mating a  wish  and  expectation  that  death  would  speedily  end  the 
woes  of  the  disgraced  Arthur  Pendennis. 

Then  he  slunk  out,  scarcel}-  knowing  whither  he  went,  but 
mechanically  taking  the  unfrequented  little  lanes  by  the  backs 
of  the  colleges,  until  he  cleared  the  university  precincts,  and 
got  down  to  the  banks  of  the  Camisis  River,  now  deserted,  but 
so  often  alive  with  the  boat-races,  and  the  crowds  of  cheering 
gownsmen,  he  wandered  on  and  on.  until  he  found  himself  at 


PENDENNIS.  195 

some  miles'  distance  from  Oxbridge,  or  rather  was  found  by 
some  acquaintance,  leaving  that  cit}-. 

As  Pen  went  up  a  hill,  a  drizzling  January  rain  beating  in 
his  face,  and  his  ragged  gown  flying  behind  him  —  for  he  had 
not  divested  himself  of  his  academical  garments  since  the 
morning  —  a  post-chaise  came  rattling  up  the  road,  on  the  box 
of  which  a  servant  was  seated,  whilst  within,  or  rather  half 
out  of  the  carriage  window,  sat  a  young  gentleman  smoking  a 
cigar,  and  loudly  encouraging  the  post-boy.  It  was  our  young 
acquaintance  of  Bay  mouth,  Mr.  Spavin,  who  had  got  his  degree, 
and  was  driving  homewards  in  triumph  in  his  jellow  post-chaise. 
He  caught  sight  of  the  figure,  madh'  gesticulating  as  he  worked 
up  the  hill,  and  of  poor  Pen's  pale  and  ghastl}^  face  as  the 
chaise  whirled  by  him. 

"  Wo  !  "  roared  Mr.  Spavin  to  the  post-boy,  and  the  horses 
stopped  in  their  mad  career,  and  the  carriage  pulled  up  some 
fift}-  yards  before  Pen.  He  presentl}'  heard  his  own  name 
shouted,  &nd  beheld  the  upper  half  of  the  body  of  Mr.  Spavin 
thrust  out  of  the  side- window  of  the  vehicle,  and  beckoning 
Pen  vehemently  towards  it. 

Pen  stopped,  hesitated  —  nodded  his  head  fiercel_y,  and 
pointed  onwards,  as  if  desirous  that  the  postilion  should  pro- 
ceed. He  did  not  speak :  but  his  countenance  must  have 
looked  very  desperate,  for  3'oung  Spavin,  having  stared  at  him 
with  an  expression  of  blank  alarm,  jumped  out  of  the  carriage 
presently,  ran  towards  Pen  holding  out  his  hand,  and  grasping 
Pen's  said,  "  I  say  —  hullo,  old  boy,  where  are  you  going,  and 
what's  the  row  now  ?  " 

"I'm  going  where  I  deserve  to  go,"  said  Pen  with  an 
imprecation. 

"  This  ain't  the  wa}',"  said  Mr.  Spavin,  smiling.  "  This  is 
the  Fenbur^-  road.  I  say,  Pen,  don't  take  on  because  j-ou  are 
plucked.  It's  nothing  when  you  are  used  to  it.  I've  been 
plucked  three  times,  old  bo}' —  and  after  the  first  time  I  didn't  care. 
Glad  it's  over,  though.     You'll  have  better  luck  next  time." 

Pen  looked  at  his  early  acquaintance,  —  who  had  been 
plucked,  who  had  been  rusticated,  who  had  only,  after  repeated 
failures,  learned  to  read  and  write  correctl}-,  and  who,  in  spite 
of  all  these  drawbacks,  had  attained  the  honor  of  a  degree. 
••  This  man  has  passed,"  he  thought,  "  and  I  have  failed!  " 
It  was  almost  too  much  for  him  to  bear. 

"  Good-by,  Spavin,"  said  he;  "I'm  very  glad  you  are 
through.  Don't  let  me  keep  you  ;  I'm  in  a  huiTy  —  I'm  going 
«o  town  to-night." 

13 


194  PENDENNTS. 

"Gammon,"  said  Mr.  Spavin.  "This  a.a't  the  way  to 
town  ;  this  is  the  Fenbury  road,  I  tell  you."_ 
"  I  was  just  going  to  turn  back,"  Pen  said. 
"  All  the  coaches  are  full  with  the  men  going  down," 
Spavin  said.  Pen  winced.  "You'd  not  get  a  place  for  a 
ten-pound  note.  Get  into  my  yellow  ;  I'll  drop  3-ou  at  Mud- 
ford,  where  you  have  a  chance  of  the  Fenbury  mail.  I'll  lend 
3'ou  a  hat  and  a  coat ;  I've  got  lots.  Come  along ;  jump  in, 
old  boy  —  ^o  it,  leathers  !  "  —  and  in  this  wny  Pen  found  him- 
self in  Mr.  Spavin's  post-chaise,  and  rode  with  that  gentleman 
as  far  as  the  Ram  Inn  at  Mudford,  fifteen  iniles  from  Oxbridge  ; 
where  the  Fenbury  mail  changed  horses,  »ind  where  Pen  got  a 
place  on  to  London. 

The  next  day  there  was  an  immense  excitement  in  Boniface 
College,  Oxbridge,  where,  for  some  time,  a  rumor  prevailed,  to 
the  terror  of  Pen's  tutor  and  tradesmen,  that  Pendennis,  mad- 
dened at  losing  his  degi*ee,  had  made  away  with  himself — a 
battered  cap,  in  which  his  name  was  almost  discernible,  to- 
gether with  a  seal  bearing  his  crest  of  an  eagle  looking  at  a 
now  extinct  sun,  had  been  found  three  miles  on  the  Fenbury 
road,  near  a  mill  stream ;  and,  for  four-and-twenty  hours,  it 
was  supposed  that  poor  Pen  had  flung  himself  into  the 
stream,  until  letters  arrived  from  him,  bearing  the  London 
post-mark. 

The  mail  reached  London  at  the  drear}-  hour  of  five  ;  and  he 
iiastened  to  the  inn  at  Co  vent  Garden,  at  which  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  put  up,  where  the  ever-wakeful  porter  admitted  him, 
and  showed  him  to  a  bed.  Pen  looked  hard  at  the  man,  and 
wondered  whether  Boots  knew  he  was  plucked  ?  When  in  bed 
he  could  not  sleep  there.  He  tossed  about  until  the  appear- 
ance of  the  dismal  London  dayhght,  when  he  sprang  up  desper- 
ately, and  walked  off  to  his  uncle's  lodgings  in  Bury  Street ; 
where  the  maid,  who  was  scouring  the  steps,  looked  up  sus- 
piciously at  him,  as  he  came  with  an  unshaven  face,  and  j-ester- 
day's  Unen.     He  thought  she  knew  of  his  mishap,  too. 

"  Good  evens!  Mr.  Harthur,  what  as  appened,  sir?"  Mr. 
Morgan,  the  valet,  asked,  who  had  just  arranged  the  well-brushed 
clothes  and  shiny  boots  at  the  door  of  his  master's  bedroom, 
and  was  carrying  in  his  wig  to  the  Major. 

"  I  want  to  see  my  uncle,"  he  cried,  in  a  ghastl}'  voice,  and 
flung  himself  down  on  a  chair 

Morgan  backed  before  the  pale  and  desperate-looking  young 
man,  with  terrified  and  wondering  glances,  and  disappeared 
into  his  master's  aoartment. 


PENDENNIS.  195 

The  Major  put  his  head  out  of  the  bedroom  door,  as  soon  as 
he  had  his  wig  on. 

"What?  examination  over?  Senior  Wrangler,  double 
First  Class,  hay?"  said  the  old  gentleman  —  ''I'll  come  di- 
rectly ; "  and  the  head  disappeared. 

"They  don't  know  what  has  happened,"  groaned  Pen; 
"  what  will  they  say  when  the}-  know  all?  " 

Pen  had  been  standing  with  his  back  to  the  window,  and  to 
such  a  dubious  light  as  Bury  Street  enjoys  of  a  foggy  January 
morning,  so  that  his  uncle  could  not  see  the  expression  of  the 
young  man's  countenance,  or  the  looks  of  gloom  and  despair 
which  even  Mr.  Morgan  had  remarked. 

But  when  the  Major  came  out  of  his  dressing-room  neat  and 
radiant,  and  preceded  by  faint  odors  from  Delcroix's  shop, 
from  which  emporium  Major  Pendennis's  wig  and  his  pocket- 
handkerchief  got  their  perfume,  he  held  out  one  of  his  hands  to 
Pen,  and  was  about  addressing  him  in  his  cheery  high-toned 
voice,  when  he  caught  sight  of  the  boy's  face  at  length,  and 
dropping  his  hand,  said,  "Good  God!  Pen,  what's  the  mat- 
ter?" 

"  You'll  see  it  in  the  papers  at  breakfast,  sir,"  Pen  said. 

"See  what?" 

"  M}'  name  isn't  there,  sir." 

"Hang  it,  why  should  it  be?"  asked  the  Major,  more  per- 
plexed. 

"I  have  lost  everything,  sir,"  Pen  groaned  out;  "my 
honor's  gone  ;  I'm  ruined  irretrievabl}' ;  I  can't  go  back  to 
Oxbridge." 

"Lost  your  honor?"  screamed  out  the  Major.  "Heaven 
aUve  !  you  don't  mean  to  say  you  have  shown  the  white  feather  ?  " 

Pen  laughed  bitterly  at  the  word  feather,  and  repeated  it. 
"  No,  it  isn't  that,  sir.  I'm  not  afraid  of  being  shot;  I  wish 
to  God  anybody  would  shoot  me.  I  have  not  got  my  degree. 
I — I'm  plucked,  sir." 

The  Major  had  heard  of  plucking,  but  in  a  very  vague  and 
cursory  way,  and  concluded  that  it  was  some  ceremony  per- 
formed corporall}'  upon  rebellious  university  youth.  "  I  won- 
der you  can  look  me  in  the  face  after  such  a  disgrace,  sir,"  he 
said  ;  "  I  wonder  you  submitted  to  it  us  a  gentleman." 

"I  couldn't  help  it,  sir.  I  did  m}'  c'lassical  papers  well 
enough  •  it  was  those  infernal  mathematics,  which  I  have 
always  neglected." 

"  Was  it  —  was  it  done  in  public,  sir?"  the  Major  said 

"What?" 


196  PENDENNTS. 

"The  —  the  plucking?"  asked  the  guardian,  looking  Pen 
anxiousi}'  in  the  face. 

Pen  perceived  the  error  under  which  his  guardian  was 
laboring,  and  in  the  midst  of  his  misery  the  blunder  caused  the 
poor  wretch  a  faint  smile,  and  served  to  bring  down  the  con- 
versation from  the  tragedy-key,  in  which  Pen  had  been  disposed 
to  carr}^  it  on.  He  explained  to  his  uncle  that  he  had  gone  in 
to  pass  his  examination,  and  failed.  On  which  the  Major  said, 
that  though  he  had  expected  far  better  things  of  his  nephew, 
there  was  no  great  misfortune  in  this,  and  no  dishonor  as  far 
as  he  saw,  and  that  Pen  must  try  again. 

"  Jfe  again  at  Oxbridge,"  Pen  thought,  "after  such  a 
humiliation  as  that !  "  He  felt  that,  except  he  went  down  to 
burn  the  place,  he  could  not  enter  it. 

But  it  was  when  he  came  to  tell  his  uncle  of  his  debts  that 
the  other  felt  suiprise  and  anger  most  keenly,  and  broke  out 
into  speeches  most  severe  upon  Pen,  which  the  lad  bore,  as 
best  he  might,  without  flinching.  He  had  determined  to  make 
a  clean  breast,  and  had  formed  a  full,  true,  and  complete  list 
of  all  his  bills  and  liabilities  at  the  university,  and  in  London. 
They  consisted  of  various  items,  such  as 

London  Tailor.  Oxbridge  do. 

Oxbridge  do.  Bill  for  horses. 

Haberdasher,  for  shirts  and  gloves.    Printseller. 

Jeweller.  Books. 

College  Cook.  Binding. 

Crump,  for  desserts.  Hairdresser  and  Perfumery. 

Bootmaker.  Hotel  Bill  in  London. 

Wine  Merchant  in  London.  Sundries. 

All  which  items  the  reader  may  fill  in  at  his  pleasure  —  such 
accounts  have  been  inspected  b}^  the  parents  of  many  uni- 
versity 3-outh,  —  and  it  appeared  that  Mr.  Pen's  bills  in  all 
amounted  to  about  seven  hundred  pounds  ;  and,  furthermore, 
it  was  calculated  that  he  had  had  more  than  twice  that  sum  of 
ready  money  during  his  sta}'  at  Oxbridge.  This  sum  he  had 
spent,  and  for  it  had  to  show  —  what? 

"  You  need  not  press  a  man  who  is  down,  sir,"  Pen  said  to 
his  uncle,  gloomil3\  "  I  know  very  well  how  wicked  and  idle 
I  have  been.  M}-  mother  won't  like  to  see  me  dishonored,  sir," 
he  continued,  with  his  voice  failing  ;  "  and  I  know  she  will  pay 
these  accounts.     But  I  shall  ask  her  for  no  more  money." 

"  As  3'ou  like,  sir,"  the  Major  said.     "  You  are  of  age,  aud 


PENDENNIS.  197 

my  bands  are  washed  of  3'our  affairs.  But  you  can't  live  with- 
out money,  and  have  no  means  of  making  it  that  I  see,  though 
30U  have  a  fine  talent  in  spending  it,  and  it  is  m}^  belief  that 
3'ou  will  proceed  as  you  have  begun,  and  ruin  3-our  mother 
before  you  are  five  3'ears  older.  —  Good  morning  ;  it  is  time  for 
me  to  go  to  breakfast.  My  engagements  won't  permit  me  to 
see  3'ou  much  during  the  time  that  you  stay  in  London.  I  pre- 
sume that  you  will  acquaint  your  mother  with  the  news  whicli 
you  have  just  conveyed  to  me." 

And  pulling  on  his  hat,  and  trembhng  in  his  limbs  some- 
what, Major  Pendennis  walked  out  of  his  lodgings  before  his 
nephew,  and  went  ruefully'  oflT  to  take  his  accustomed  corner  at 
the  Club.  He  saw  the  Oxbridge  examination-lists  in  the  morn- 
ing papers,  and  read  over  the  names,  not  understanding  the 
business,  with  mournful  accurac3\  He  consulted  various  old 
fogies  of  his  acquaintance,  in  the  course  of  the  da3-,  at  his 
Clubs ;  Wenham,  a  Dean,  various  Civilians ;  and,  as  it  is 
called,  ''took  their  opinion,"  showing  to  some  of  them  the 
amount  of  his  nephew's  debts,  which  he  had  dotted  down  on  the 
back  of  a  card,  and  asking  what  was  to  be  done,  and  whether 
such  debts  were  not  monstrous,  preposterous?  "What  was  to 
be  done  ?  —  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  pa3'.  Wenham  and 
the  others  told  the  Major  of  young  men  who  owed  twice  as 
much  —  five  times  as  much  —  as  Arthur,  and  with  no  means  at 
all  to  pa3'.  The  consultations,  and  calculations,  and  opinions, 
comforted  the  Major  somewhat.     After  all,  he  was  not  to  pa3\ 

But  he  thought  bitterly  of  the  many  plans  he  had  formed  to 
make  a  man  of  his  nephew,  of  the  sacrifices  which  he  had  made, 
and  of  the  manner  in  which  he  was  disappointed.  And  he 
wrote  off  a  letter  to  Doctor  Portman,  informing  him  of  the  dire- 
ful events  which  had  taken  place,  and  begging  the  Doctor  to 
break  them  to  Helen.  For  the  orthodox  old  gentleman  pre- 
served the  regular  routine  in  all  things,  and  was  of  opinion  that 
it  was  more  correct  to  "  break  "  a  piece  of  bad  news  to  a  person 
b3'  means  of  a  (possibl3'  maladroit  and  unfeeling)  messenger, 
than  to  conve3-  it  simpl3'  to  its  destination  b3'  a  note.  So  the 
Major  wrote  to  Doctor  Portman,  and  then  went  out  to  din- 
ner, one  of  the  saddest  men  in  an3'  London  dining-room  that 
day. 

Pen,  too,  wrote  his  letter,  and  skulked  about  London 
streets  for  the  rest  of  the  da3',  fanc3ing  that  ever3'body  was 
looking  at  him  and  whispering  to  his  neighbor,  "  That  is  Pen- 
dennis of  Boniface,  who  was  plucked  yesterday-.*'  His  letter 
to  his  mother  was  full  of  tenderness  and  remorse :  he  wept  the 


198  PENDENNIS. 

bitterest  tears  over  it — and  the  repentance  and  passion  soothed 
him  to  some  degree. 

He  saw  a  party  of  roaring  young  blades  from  Oxbridge  in 
the  coffee-room  of  his  hotel,  and  slunk  away  from  them,  and 
paced  the  streets.  He  remembers,  he  says,  the  prints  which  he 
saw  hano"ing  up  at  Ackermann's  window  in  the  rain,  and  a  book 
which  he  read  at  a  stall  near  the  Temple  :  at  night  he  went  to 
tlie  pit  of  the  play,  and  saw  Miss  Fotheringa}',  but  he  doesn't 
in  the  least  recollect  in  what  piece. 

On  the  second  da}'  there  came  a  kind  letter  from  his  tutor, 
containing  many  grave  and  appropriate  remarks  upon  the  event 
which  had  befallen  him,  but  strongly  urging  Pen  not  to  take  his 
name  off  the  university'  books,  and  to  retrieve  a  disaster  which, 
everybody  knew,  was  owing  to  his  own  carelessness  alone,  and 
which  he  might  repair  by  a  month's  application.  He  said  he  had 
ordered  Pen's  skip  to  pack  up  some  trunks  of  the  3'oung  gen- 
tleman's wardrobe,  which  duly  arrived  with  fresh  copies  of  all 
Pen's  bills  laid  on  the  top. 

On  the  third  day  there  arrived  a  letter  from  Home ;  which 
Pen  read  in  his  bedroom,  and  the  result  of  which  was  that  he 
fell  down  on  his  knees,  with  his  head  in  the  bed-clothes,  and 
there  prayed  out  his  heart,  and  humbled  himself;  and  having 
gone  down  stairs  and  eaten  an  immense  breakfast,  he  sallied 
forth  and  took  his  place  at  the  Bull  and  Mouth,  Piccadilly,  by 
the  Chatteris  coach  for  that  evening. 


CHAPTER    XXI. 

prodigal's  return. 

Such  a  letter  as  the  Major  wrote,  of  course  sent  Doctor 
Portman  to  Fairoaks,  and  he  went  off  with  that  alacrity  which 
a  good  man  shows  when  he  has  disagreeable  news  to  communi- 
cate. He  wislies  the  deed  were  done,  and  done  quickl}'.  He 
is  sorr}',  but  que  t-oulez-vous?  the  tooth  must  be  taken  out,  and 
he  has  you  into  the  chair,  and  it  is  surprising  with  what  cour- 
age and  vigor  of  wrist  he  applies  the  forceps.  Perhaps  he 
would  not  be  quite  so  active  or  eager  if  it  were  Ms  tooth  ; 
but,  in  fine,  it  is  your  duty  to  haA^e  it  out.  So  the  Doctor, 
having  read  the  epistle  out  to  Mh-jx^  and  Mrs.  Portman,  with 


PENDElsTNIS.  199 

Snany  damnatory  comments  upon  the  young  scapegrace  who 
was  going  deeper  and  deeper  into  perdition,  left  those  ladies  to 
spread  the  news  through  the  Clavering  society,  which  they  did 
with  their  accustomed  accuracy  and  despatch,  and  strode  oyer 
to  Fairoaks  to  break  the  intelligence  to  the  widow. 

8he  had  the  news  already.  She  had  read  Pen's  letter,  and  it 
had  relieved  her  somehow.  A  gloom}'  presentiment  of  evil  had 
been  hanging  over  her  for  man}',  mau}^  months  past.  She  knew 
the  worst  now,  and  her  darling  bo\'  was  come  back  to  her  re- 
pentant and  tender-hearted.  Did  she  want  more?  All  that  the 
Rector  could  say  ( and  his  remarks  were  both  dictated  by  com- 
mon sense,  and  made  respectable  b}'  antiquity)  could  not  bring 
Helen  to  feel  any  indignation  or  particular  unliappiness,  except 
that  the  boy  should  be  unhappy.  What  was  this  degree  that 
they  made  such  an  outcry  about,  and  what  good  would  it  do 
Pen?  Wh}-  did  Doctor  Portman  and  his  uncle  insist  upon 
sending  the  bo}'  to  a  place  where  there  was  so  much  tempta- 
tion to  be  risked,  and  so  little  good  to  be  won?  Why  didn't 
the}'  leave  him  at  home  with  his  mother?  As  for  his  debts,  of 
course  they  must  be  paid  ;  —  his  debts  !  —  wasn't  his  father's 
money  all  his,  and  hadn't  he  a  right  to  spend  it?  In  this  way 
the  widow  met  the  virtuous  Doctor,  and  all  the  arrows  of  his 
indignation  somehow  took  no  effect  ui3on  her  gentle  bosom. 

For  some  time  past  an  agreeable  practice,  known  since  times 
ever  so  ancient,  by  which  brothers  and  sisters  are  wont  to  ex- 
hibit their  affection  towards  one  another,  and  in  which  Pen  and 
his  little  sister  Laura  had  been  accustomed  to  indulge  pretty 
frequently  in  their  childish  days,  had  been  given  up  by  the 
mutual  consent  of  those  two  individuals.  Coming  back  from 
college  after  an  absence  from  home  of  some  months,  in  place 
of  the  simple  girl  whom  he  had  left  behind  him,  Mr.  Arthur 
found  a  tall,  slim,  handsome  young  lady,  to  whom  he  could  not 
somehow  proffer  the  kiss  which  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of 
administering  previously,  and  who  received  him  with  a  gracious 
curtsy  and  a  proffered  hand,  and  with  a  great  blush  which  rose 
up  to  the  cheek,  just  upon  the  very  spot  which  young  Pen  had 
been  used  to  salute. 

I  am  not  good  at  descriptions  of  female  beauty  ;  and,  indeed, 
do  not  care  for  it  in  the  least  (thinking  that  goodness  and  vir- 
tue are,  of  course,  far  more  advantageous  to  a  young  lady  than 
any  mere  fleeting  charms  of  person  and  face) ,  and  so  shall  not 
attempt  any  particular  delineation  of  Miss  Laura  Bell  at  the 
age  of  sixteen  years.  At  that  age  she  had  attiiined  her  present 
altitude  «f  five  feet  four  inches,  so  that  she  was  called  tall  and 


300  PENDENNIS. 

gawk}'  by  some,  aud  a  Ma3'pole  by  others,  of  her  own  sex,  who 
prefer  littler  women.  But  if  she  was  a  Maypole,  she  had  beau> 
tiful  roses  about  her  head,  and  it  is  a  fact  that  many  swains 
were  disposed  to  dance  round  her.  She  was  ordinarily  pale, 
with  a  faint  rose  tinge  in  her  cheeks  ;  but  they  flushed  up  in  a 
minute  when  occasion  called,  and  continued  so  blushing  ever  so 
long,  the  roses  remaining  after  the  emotion  had  passed  away 
which  had  summoned  those  pretty  flowers  into  existence.  Her 
eyes  have  been  described  as  verj'  large  from  her  earliest  child- 
hood, and  retained  that  characteristic  in  later  life.  Good- 
natured  critics  (always  females)  said  that  she  was  in  the  habit 
of  making  play  with  those  eyes,  and  ogling  the  gentlemen  and 
ladies  in  her  company  ;  but  the  fact  is,  that  Nature  had  made 
them  so  to  shine  and  to  look,  and  they  could  no  more  help  so 
looking  and  shining  than  one  star  can  help  being  brighter  than 
another.  It  was  doubtless  to  mitigate  their  brightness  that 
Miss  Laura's  e^^es  were  provided  with  two  pairs  of  veils  in  the 
shape  of  the  longest  and  finest  black  e3'elashes,  so  that,  when 
she  closed  her  eyes,  the  same  people  who  found  fault  with  those 
orbs,  said  that  she  wanted  to  show  her  eyelashes  oflf;  and, 
indeed,  I  dare  sa}'  that  to  see  her  asleep  would  have  been  a 
pretty  sight. 

As  for  her  complexion,  that  was  nearl}'  as  brilliant  as  Lad}' 
Mantrap's,  and  without  the  powder  which  her  ladyship  uses. 
Her  nose  must  be  left  to  the  reader's  imagination  :  if  her  mouth 
was  rather  large  (as  Miss  Piminy  avers,  who,  but  for  her  known 
appetite  one  would  think  could  not  swallow  anything  larger  than 
a  button)  everybody  allowed  that  her  smile  was  charming,  and 
showed  off"  a  set  of  pearly  teeth,  whilst  her  voice  was  so  low  and 
sweet,  that  to  hear  it  was  like  listening  to  sweet  music.  Because 
she  is  in  the  habit  of  wearing  very  long  dresses,  people  of  course 
say  that  her  feet  are  not  small :  but  it  ma}'  be,  that  they  are  of 
the  size  becoming  her  figure,  and  it  does  not  follow,  because 
Mrs.  Pincher  is  always  putting  her  foot  out,  that  all  other  ladies 
should  be  perpetually  bringing  theirs  on  the  tapis.  In  fine, 
Miss  Laura  Bell,  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  was  a  sweet  young  lady. 
Many  thousands  of  such  are  to  be  found,  let  us  hope,  in  this 
country,  where  there  is  no  lack  of  goodness,  and  modesty,  and 
purity,  and  beauty. 

Now,  Miss  Laura,  since  she  had  learned  to  think  for  herself 
(and  in  the  past  two  years  her  mind  and  her  person  had  both 
developed  themselves  considerably),  had  only  been  half  pleased 
with  Pen's  general  conduct  and  bearing.  His  letters  to  his 
mother  at  home  had  become  of  late  very  rare  and  shoil.     It 


PENDENNIS.  201 

was  in  vain  that  the  fond  widow  urged  how  constant  Arthur's 
occupations  and  studies  were,  and  how  man}-  his  engagements. 
"  It  is  better  that  he  should  lose  a  prize,"  Laura  said,  '"  than 
forget  his  mother :  and  indeed,  mamma,  I  don't  see  that  he 
gets  man}-  prizes.  Why  doesn't  he  come  home  and  sta}'  with 
you,  instead  of  passing  his  vacations  at  his  great  friends'  fine 
houses?  There  is  nobody  tliere  will  love  him  half  as  much 
as  —  as  30U  do."  "As  /do  onh',  Laura,"  sighed  out  Mrs. 
Pendennis.  Laura  declared  stoutly  that  she  did  not  love  Pen 
a  bit,  when  he  did  not  do  his  duty  to  his  mother :  nor  would 
she  be  convinced  by  any  of  Helen's  fond  arguments,  that  the 
bo}-  must  make  his  way  in  the  world ;  that  his  uncle  was  most 
desirous  that  Pen  should  cultivate  the  acquaintance  of  persons 
who  were  likel}'  to  befriend  him  in  life  ;  that  men  had  a  thou- 
sand ties  and  calls  which  women  could  not  understand,  and  so 
forth.  Perhaps  Helen  no  more  believed  in  these  excuses  than 
her  adopted  daughter  did ;  but  she  tried  to  believe  that  she 
believed  them,  and  comforted  herself  with  the  maternal  infatu- 
ation. And  that  is  a  point  whereon  I  suppose  many  a  gentle- 
man has  reflected,  that,  do  what  we  will,  we  are  pretty  sure  of 
the  woman's  love  that  once  has  been  ours ;  and  that  that  untir- 
ing tenderness  and  forgiveness  never  fail  us. 

Also,  there  had  been  that  freedom,  not  to  say  audacit3%  in 
Arthur's  latter  talk  and  ways,  which  had  shocked  and  dis- 
pleased Laura.  Not  that  he  ever  offended  her  by  rudeness,  or 
addressed  to  her  a  word  which  she  ought  not  to  hear,  for  Mr. 
Pen  was  a  gentleman,  and  by  nature  and  education  polite  to 
every  woman  high  and  low ;  but  he  spoke  lightly  and  laxl}^ 
of  women  in  general ;  was  less  courteous  in  his  actions  than  in 
his  words  —  neglectful  in  sundry  ways,  and  in  many  of  the 
little  offices  of  life.  It  offended  Miss  Laura  that  he  should 
smoke  his  horrid  pipes  in  the  house  ;  that  he  should  refuse  to 
go  to  church  with  his  mother,  or  on  walks  or  visits  with  her, 
and  be  found  yawning  over  his  novel  in  his  dressing-gown, 
when  the  gentle  widow  returned  from  those  duties.  The  hero 
of  Laura's  earl}^  infancj^,  about  whom  she  had  passed  so  many, 
man}'  nights  talking  with  Helen  (who  recited  endless  stories  of 
the  boy's  virtues,  and  love,  and  bravery,  when  he  was  away 
at  school),  was  a  very  diffei'ent  person  from  the  young  man 
whom  now  she  knew  ;  bold  and  brilliant,  sarcastic  and  defiant, 
seeming  to  scorn  the  simple  occupations  or  pleasures,  or  even 
devotions,  of  the  women  with  whom  he  lived,  and  whom  he 
quitted  on  such  light  pretexts. 

The  Fothetingay  aflair,  too.  when  Laura  came  to  hear  of  i^t 


202  PENDENNIS. 

(which  she  did  first  by  some  sarcastic  alhisious  of  Major  Pen- 
dennis,  when  on  a  visit  to  Fairoaks,  and  then  from  their  neigh- 
bors at  Clavering,  who  had  plenty  of  information  to  give  her  on 
this  head),  vastlj'  shocked  and  outraged  Miss  Laura.  A  Pen- 
dcnnis  fling  himself  awa}-  on  such  a  woman  as  that !  Helen's 
bov  galloping  nyvay  from  home,  day  after  day,  to  fall  on  his 
knees  to  an  actress,  and  drink  with  her  horrid  father !  A  good 
son  want  to  bring  such  a  man  and  such  a  woman  into  his  house, 
and  set  her  over  his  mother !  "I  would  have  run  away, 
mamma ;  I  would,  if  I  had  had  to  walk  barefoot  thi'ough  the 
snow,"  Laura  said. 

"  And  you  would  have  left  me  too,  then?  "  Helen  answered ; 
on  which,  of  course,  Laura  withdrew  her  previous  observation, 
and  the  two  women  rushed  into  each  other's  embraces  with  that 
warmth  which  belonged  to  both  their  natures,  and  which  charac- 
terizes not  a  few  of  their  sex.  Whence  came  all  this  indigna- 
tion of  Miss  Laura  about  Arthur's  passion?  Perhaps  she  did 
not  know,  that,  if  men  throw  themselves  away  upon  women, 
women  throw  themselves  away  upon  men,  too  ;  and  that  there 
is  no  more  accounting  for  love,  than  for  any  other  ph3sical 
liking  or  antipathy :  perhaps  she  had  been  misinformed  bj'  the 
Clavering  people  and  old  Mrs.  Portman,  who  was  vastly  bitter 
against  Pen,  especially  since  his  impertinent  behavior  to  the 
Doctor,  and  since  the  wretch  had  smoked  cigars  in  church-time  : 
perhaps,  finall}-,  she  was  jealous  ;  but  this  is  a  vice  in  which  it 
is  said  the  ladies  very  seldom  indulge. 

Albeit  she  was  angry  with  Pen,  against  his  mother  she  had 
no  such  feeling ;  but  devoted  herself  to  Helen  with  the  utmost 
force  of  her  girlish  affection  —  such  affection  as  women,  whose 
hearts  are  disengaged,  are  apt  to  bestow  upon  the  near  female 
friend.  It  was  devotion  —  it  was  passion  — it  was  all  sorts  of 
fondness  and  foil}- ;  it  was  a  profusion  of  caresses,  tender  epi- 
thets and  endearments,  such  as  it  does  not  become  sober  his- 
torians with  beards  to  narrate.  Do  not  let  us  men  despise 
these  instincts  because  we  cannot  feel  them.  These  women 
were  made  for  our  comfort  and  delectation,  gentlemen,  —  with 
all  the  rest  of  the  minor  animals. 

But  as  soon  as  Miss  Laura  heard  that  Pen  was  unfortunate 
and  unhappy,  all  her  wrath  against  him  straightway  vanished, 
and  gave  place  to  the  most  tender  and  unreasonable  compas- 
sion. He  was  the  Pen  of  oid  da3's  once  more  restored  to  her, 
the  frank  and  affectionate,  the  generous  and  tender-hearted. 
She  at  once  took  side  with  Helen  against  Doctor  Portman,  when 
he  outcried  at  the  enormity-  of  Pen's  transgressions.     Debts? 


PENDENNIS.  203 

what  were  his  debts?  they  were  a  trifle;  he  had  been  thrown 
into  expensive  society  by  his  uncle's  order,  and  of  course  was 
obliged  to  live  in  the  same  manner  as  the  3'oung  gentlemen 
whose  company  he  frequented.  Disgraced  by  not  getting  his 
degree  ?  the  poor  boy  was  ill  when  he  went  in  for  the  examina- 
tions :  he  couldn't  think  of  his  mathematics  and  stutf  on  account 
of  those  very  debts  which  oppressed  him  ;  very  likel}-  some  of 
the  odious  tutors  and  masters  were  jealous  of  him,  and  had 
favorites  of  their  own  whom  the}'  wanted  to  put  over  his  head. 
Other  people  disliked  him  and  were  cruel  to  him,  and  were 
unfair  to  him,  she  was  very  sure.  And  so,  with  flushing  cheeks 
and  eyes  bright  with  anger,  this  young  creature  reasoned  ;  and 
she  went  up  and  seized  Helen's  hand,  and  kissed  her  in  the 
Doctor's  presence,  and  her  looks  braved  the  Doctor,  and  seemed 
to  ask  how  he  dared  to  sav  a  word  against  her  darling  mother's 
Pen? 

When  that  divine  took  his  leave,  not  a  little  discomfited 
and  amazed  at  the  pertinacious  obstinac}'  of  the  women,  Laura 
repeated  her  embraces  and  arguments  with  tenfold  fervor  to 
Helen,  who  felt  that  there  was  a  great  deal  of  cogency  in  most 
of  the  latter.  There  must  be  some  jealous}'  against  Pen.  She 
felt  quite  sure  that  he  had  offended  some  of  the  examiners,  who 
had  taken  a  mean  revenge  of  him  —  nothing  more  likely.  Al- 
together, the  announcement  of  the  misfortune  vexed  these  two 
ladies  very  little  indeed.  Pen,  who  was  plunged  in  his  shame 
and  grief  in  London,  and  torn  with  great  remorse  for  thinking 
of  his  mother's  sorrow,  would  have  wondered,  had  he  seen  how 
easily  she  bore  the  calamity.  Indeed,  calamity  is  welcome  to 
women  if  they  think  it  will  bring  truant  affection  home  again  : 
and  if  you  have  reduced  30ur  mistress  to  a  crust,  depend  upon 
it  that  she  won't  repine,  and  only  take  a  very  little  bit  of  it  for 
herself,  provided  3-ou  will  eat  the  remainder  in  her  company. 

And  directly  the  Doctor  was  gone,  Laura  ordered  fires  to 
be  lighted  in  Mr.  Arthur's  rooms,  and  his  bedding  to  be  aired  ; 
and  had  these  preparations  completed  by  the  time  Helen  had 
finished  a  most  tender  and  affectionate  letter  to  Pen :  when  the 
girl,  smiling  fondly,  took  her  mamma  b}'  the  hand,  and  led  her 
into  those  apartments  where  the  fires  were  blazing  so  cheer- 
fully, and  there  the  two  kind  creatures  sat  down  on  the  bed, 
and  talked  about  Pen  ever  so  long.  Laura  added  a  postscript 
to  Helen's  letter,  in  which  she  called  him  her  dearest  Pen,  and 
bade  him  come  home  instantly,  with  two  of  the  handsomest 
dashes  under  the  word,  and  be  happy  with  his  mother  and  his 
affectionate  sister  Laura. 


204  PENDENNIS. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  —  as  these  two  ladies,  after  read- 
ing their  Bibles  a  great  deal  during  the  evening,  and  after 
taking  just  a  look  into  Pen's  room  as  they  passed  to  their  own 
—  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  I  say,  Laura,  whose  head  not 
unfrequently  chose  to  occupy  that  pillow  which  the  nightcap  of 
the  late  Pendennis  had  been  accustomed  to  press,  cried  out 
suddenly,  "Mamma,  are  j-ou  awake?" 

Helen  stirred  and  said,  "Yes,  I'm  awake."  The  truth  is, 
though  she  had  been  h'ing  quite  still  and  silent,  she  had  not 
been  asleep  one  instant,  but  had  been  looking  at  the  night- 
lamp  in  the  chimney,  and  had  been  thinking  of  Pen  for  hours 
and  hours. 

Then  Miss  Laura  (who  had  been  acting  with  similar  hypoc- 
risy, and  lying,  occupied  with  her  own  thoughts,  as  motionless 
as  Helen's  brooch,  with  Pen's  and  Laura's  hair  in  it,  on  the 
frilled  white  pincushion  on  the  dressing-table)  began  to  tell 
Mrs.  Pendennis  of  a  notable  plan  which  she  had  been  forming 
in  her  busy  little  brains  ;  and  by  which  all  Pen's  embarrass- 
ments would  be  made  to  vanish  in  a  moment,  and  without  the 
least  trouble  to  anybody. 

"  You  know,  mamma,"  this  3'oung  lady  said,  "  that  I  have 
been  living  with  3'ou  for  ten  3'ears,  during  which  time  you  have 
never  taken  any  of  m}'  mone^^  and  have  been  treating  me  just 
as  if  I  was  a  charity  girl.  Now,  this  obligation  has  offended 
me  ver}'  much,  because  I  am  proud  and  do  not  like  to  be  be- 
holden to  people.  And  as,  if  I  had  gone  to  school  —  onlj'  I 
wouldn't  —  it  must  have  cost  me  at  least  fift}^  pounds  a  year,  it 
is  clear  that  I  owe  3'ou  fifty  times  ten  pounds,  which  I  know  3'ou 
have  put  into  the  bank  at  Chatteris  for  me,  and  which  doesn't 
belong  to  me  a  bit.  Now,  to-morrow  we  will  go  to  Chatteris, 
and  see  that  nice  old  Mr.  Rowdy,  with  the  bald  head,  and  ask 
him  for  it,  —  not  for  his  head,  but  for  the  five  hundred  pounds  : 
and  I  dare  say  he  will  lend  you  two  more,  which  we  will  save 
and  pay  back ;  and  we  will  send  the  money  to  Pen,  who  can 
pa}'  all  his  debts  without  hurting  an3bod3',  and  then  we  will 
live  happy  ever  after." 

What  Helen  replied  to  this  speech  need  not  be  repeated,  as 
the  widow's  answer  was  made  up  of  a  great  number  of  in- 
coherent ejaculations,  embraces,  and  other  irrelative  matter. 
But  the  two  women  slept  well  after  that  talk  ;  and  when  the 
night-lamp  went  out  with  a  splutter,  and  the  sun  rose  gloriously 
over  the  purple  hills,  and  the  birds  began  to  sing  and  pipe 
cheerfully  amidst  the  leafless  trees  and  glistening  evergreens  on 
Fairoaks  lawn,  Helen  woke  too,  and  as  she  looked  at  the  sweet 


PENDENNIS.  .  205 

face  of  the  girl  sleeping  beside  her,  her  lips  parted  with  a  smile, 
blushes  on  her  cheeks,  her  spotless  bosom  heaving  and  falling 
with  gentle  undulations,  as  if  happy  dreams  were  sweeping 
over  it  —  Pen's  mother  felt  happy  and  grateful  beyond  all 
power  of  words,  save  such  as  pious  women  offer  up  to  the 
Beneficent  Dispenser  of  love  and  mercy  —  in  Whose  honor  a 
chorus  of  such  praises  is  constant!}'  rising  up  all  round  the 
world. 

Although  it  was  January  and  rather  cold  weather,  so  sincere 
was  Mr.  Pen's  remorse,  and  so  determined  his  plans  of  economy, 
that  he  would  not  take  an  inside  place  in  the  coach,  but  sat 
up  behind  with  his  friend  the  Guard,  who  remembered  his 
former  liberalit}',  and  lent  him  plenty  of  great-coats.  Perhaps 
it  was  the  cold  that  made  his  knees  tremble  as  he  got  down  at 
the  lodge  gate,  or  it  ma}'  be  that  he  was  agitated  at  the  notion 
of  seeing  the  kind  creature  for  whose  love  he  had  made  so  self- 
ish a  return.  Old  John  was  in  waiting  to  receive  his  master's 
baggage,  but  he  appeared  in  a  fustian  jacket,  and  no  longer 
wore  his  livery  of  drab  and  blue.  "  I'se  garner  and  stable 
man,  and  lives  in  the  ladge  now,"  this  worthy  man  remarked, 
with  a  grin  of  welcome  to  Pen,  and  something  of  a  blush  ;  but 
instantly  as  Pen  turned  the  corner  of  the  shrubbery,  and  was 
out  of  eye-shot  of  the  coach,  Helen  made  her  appearance,  her 
face  beaming  with  love  and  forgiveness  —  for  forgiving  is  what 
some  women  love  best  of  all. 

We  may  be  sure  that  the  widow,  having  a  certain  other 
object  in  view,  had  lost  no  time  in  writing  off  to  Pen  an  account 
of  the  noble,  the  magnanimous,  the  magnificent  oflTer  of  Laura, 
filling  up  her  letter  with  a  i^rofusion  of  benedictions  upon  both 
her  children.  It  was  probabl}'  the  knowledge  of  this  money- 
obligation  wliich  caused  Pen  to  blush  very  much  when  he  saw 
Laura,  who  was  in  waiting  in  tlie  hall,  and  who  this  time,  and 
for  this  time  onlj-,  broke  through  the  little  an-angement  of  which 
we  have  spoken,  as  having  subsisted  between  her  and  Arthur 
for  the  last  few  years  ;  but  the  truth  is,  there  has  been  a  great 
deal  too  much  said  about  kissing  in  the  present  chapter. 

So  the  Prodigal  came  home,  and  the  fatted  calf  was  killed 
for  him,  and  he  was  made  as  happy  as  two  simple  women  could 
make  him.  No  allusions  were  made  to  the  Oxbridge  mishap, 
or  questions  asked  as  to  his  farther  proceedings,  for  some  time. 
But  Pen  debated  these  anxiously  in  his  own  mind,  and  up  in 
his  own  room,  where  he  passed  much  time  in  cogitation. 

A  few  da^s  after  he  came  home,  he  rode  to  Chatteris  on  his 


206  PENDENNIS. 

horse,  and  came  back  on  the  top  of  the  coach.  He  then  in- 
formed  his  mother  that  he  had  left  the  horse  to  be  sold  :  and 
when  that  operation  was  effected,  he  handed  her  over  the 
cheque,  which  she,  and  possibly  Pen  himself,  thought  was  an 
act  of  uncommon  virtue  and  self-denial,  but  which  Laura  pro- 
nounced to  be  only  strict  justice. 

He  rarely  mentioned  the  loan  which  she  had  made,  and 
which,  indeed,  had  been  accepted  by  the  widow  with  certain 
modifications  ;  but  once  or  twice,  and  with  great  hesitation  and 
stammering,  he  alluded  to  it,  and  thanked  her.  It  evidently 
pained  his  vanity  to  be  beholden  to  the  orphan  for  succor.  He 
was  wild  to  find  some  means  of  repaying  her. 

He  left  off  drinking  wine,  and  betook  himself,  but  with  great 
moderation,  to  the  refreshment  of  whiskey-and-water.  He  gave 
up  cigar  smoking ;  but  it  must  be  confessed  that  of  late  years 
he  had  liked  pipes  and  tobacco  as  well  or  even  better,  so  that 
this  sacrifice  was  not  a  very  severe  one. 

He  fell  asleep  a  great  deal  after  dinner  when  he  joined  the 
ladies  in  the  drawing-room,  and  w^as  certainly  very  moody  and 
melancholy.  He  watched  the  coaches  with  great  interest, 
walked  in  to  read  the  papers  at  Clavering  assiduously,  dined 
with  anybody  who  would  ask  him  (and  the  widow  was  glad  that 
he  should  have  any  entertainment  in  their  solitary  place),  and 
played  a  good  deal  at  cribbage  with  Captain  Glanders. 

He  avoided  Doctor  Portman,  who,  in  his  turn,  whenever 
Pen  passed,  gave  him  very  severe  looks  from  under  his  shovel- 
hat.  He  went  to  church  with  his  mother,  however,  very  regu- 
larly, and  read  pra^^ers  for  her  at  home  to  the  little  household. 
Always  humble,  it  was  greatly  diminished  now:  a  couple  of 
maids  did  the  work  of  the  house  of  Fairoaks :  the  silver  dish- 
covers  never  saw  the  light  at  all.  John  put  on  his  livery  to  go 
to  church,  and  assert  his  dignity  on  Sundays,  but  it  was  only 
for  form's  sake.  He  was  gardener  and  out-door  man,  vice 
Upton,  re&igned.  There  was  but  little  fire  in  Fairoaks  kitchen, 
and  John  and  the  maids  drank  their  evening  beer  there  by  the 
light  of  a  single  candle.  All  this  was  Mr.  Pen's  doing,  and  the 
state  of  things  did  not  increase  his  cheerfulness. 

For  some  time  Pen  said  no  power  on  earth  could  induce  him 
to  go  back  to  Oxbridge  again,  after  his  failure  there  ;  but  one 
day,  Laura  said  to  him,  with  many  blushes,  that  she  thought, 
as  some  sort  of  reparation,  of  punishment  on  himself  for  his  — 
for  his  idleness,  he  ought  to  go  back  and  get  his  degree,  if  he 
could  fetch  it  by  doing  so  ;  and  so  back  Mr.  Pen  went. 

A  plucked  man  is  a  dismal  being  in  a  university ;  belonging 


PENDENNIS.  207 

to  no  set  of  men  there,  and  owned  by  no  one.  Pen  felt  himself 
plucked  indeed  of  all  the  fine  feathers  which  he  had  won  during 
his  brilliant  years,  and  rarel}-  appeared  out  of  his  college  ;  regu- 
larly going  to  morning  chapel,  and  shutting  himself  up  in  his 
rooms  of  nights,  away  from  the  noise  and  suppers  of  the  under- 
graduates. There  were  no  duns  about  his  door,  they  were  all 
paid — -scarcel}'  any  cards  were  left  there.  The  men  of  bis 
year  had  taken  their  degi'ees,  and  were  gone.  He  went  into  a 
second  examination,  and  passed  with  perfect  ease.  He  was 
somewhat  more  easy  in  his  mind  when  he  appeared  in  his 
bachelor's  gown. 

On  his  wa}'  back  from  Oxbridge  he  paid  a  visit  to  his  uncle 
in  London  ;  but  the  old  gentleman  received  him  with  verj'  cold 
looks,  and  would  scarcel}'  give  him  his  forefinger  to  shake.  He 
called  a  second  time,  but  Morgan,  the  valet,  said  his  master 
was  from  home. 

Pen  came  back  to  Fairoaks,  and  to  his  books  and  to  his 
idleness,  and  loneliness  and  despair.  He  commenced  several 
tragedies,  and  wrote  man}-  copies  of  verses  of  a  gloomy  cast. 
He  formed  plans  of  reading  and  broke  them.  He  thought  about 
enlisting  —  about  the  Spanish  legion  —  about  a  profession.  He 
chafed  against  his  captivity,  and  cursed  the  idleness  which  had 
caused  it.  Helen  said  he  was  breaking  his  heart,  and  was  sad 
to  see  his  prostration.  As  soon  as  the}'  could  afford  it,  he 
should  go  abroad  —  he  should  go  to  London  —  he  should  be 
freed  from  the  dull  societ}'  of  two  poor  women.  It  icas  dull 
—  ver}-,  certainl}'.  The  tender  widow's  habitual  melancholy 
seemed  to  deepen  into  a  sadder  gloom ;  and  Laura  saw  with 
alann  that  the  dear  friend  became  every  year  more  languid  and 
wear}-,  and  that  her  pale  cheek  grew  more  wan. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

NEW   FACES. 

The  inmates  of  Fairoaks  were  drowsily  pursuing  this  hum- 
drum existence,  while  the  great  house  upon  the  hill,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  River  Brawl,  was  shaking  off  the  slumber  in 
which  it  had  lain  during  the  lives  of  two  generations  of  masters, 
and  giving  extraordinary  signs  of  renewed  liveliness. 

Just  about  the  time  of  Pen's  little  mishap,  and  when  he  was 


208  PENDENNIS. 

so  absorbed  in  the  grief  occasioned  by  that  calamity  as  to  take 
no  notice  of  events  which  befell  persons  less  interesting  to  him- 
self than  Arthur  Pendennis,  an  announcement  appeared  in  the 
provincial  journals  which  caused  no  small  sensation  in  the 
county  at  least,  and  in  all  the  towns,  villages,  halls  and  man- 
sions, and  parsonages  for  many  miles  round  Clavering  Park. 
At  Clavering  Market ;  at  Cackleby  Fair  ;  at  Chatteris  Sessions  ; 
on  Gooseberry  Green,  as  the  squire's  carriage  met  the  vicar's 
one-horse  contrivance,  and  the  inmates  of  both  vehicles  stopped 
on  the  road  to  talk  ;  at  Tinkleton  Church  gate,  as  the  bell  was 
tolling  in  the  sunshine,  and  the  white  smocks  and  scarlet  cloaks 
came  trooping  over  the  green  common,  to  Sunday  worship  ;  in 
a  hundred  societies  round  about  —  the  word  was,  that  Claver- 
ing Park  was  to  be  inhabited  again. 

Some  five  years  before,  the  county  papers  had  advertised 
the  marriage  at  Florence,  at  the  British  Legation,  of  Francis 
Clavering,  Esq.,  only  son  of  Sir  Francis  Clavering,  Bart.,  of 
Clavering  Park,  with  Jemima  Augusta,  daughter  of  Samuel 
Snell,  of  Calcutta,  Esq.,  and  widow  of  the  late  J.  Amory,  Esq. 
At  that  time  the  legend  in  the  county  was  that  Clavering,  who 
liad  been  ruined  for  many  a  year,  had  married  a  widow  from 
India  with  some  money.  Some  of  the  count}'  folks  caught  a 
sight  of  the  newly  married  pair.  The  Kicklebur^'s,  travelling 
in  Italy,  had  seen  them.  Clavering  occupied  the  Poggi  Palace 
at  Florence,  gave  parties,  and  lived  comfortabl}'  —  but  could 
never  come  to  England.  Another  year  —  30ung  Peregrine,  of 
Cackleby,  making  a  long  Vacation  Tour,  had  fallen  in  with  the 
Claverings  occupying  Schloss  Schinkenstein,  on  the  Mummul 
See.  At  Rome,  at  Lucca,  at  Nice,  at  the  baths  and  gambling 
places  of  the  Rhine  and  Belgium,  this  worthy  couple  might  oc- 
casionall}^  be  heard  of  by  the  curious,  and  rumors  of  them  came, 
as  it  were  by  gusts,  to  Clavering's  ancestral  place. 

Their  last  place  of  abode  was  Paris,  where  they  appear  to 
have  lived  in  great  fashion  and  splendor  after  the  news  of  the 
death  of  Samuel  Snell,  Esq.,  of  Calcutta,  reached  his  orphan 
daughter  in  Europe. 

Of  Sir  Francis  Clavering's  antecedents  little  can  be  said 
that  would  be  advantageous  to  that  respected  baronet.  The 
son  of  an  outlaw,  living  in  a  dismal  old  chateau  near  Bruges, 
this  gentleman  had  made  a  feeble  attempt  to  start  in  life  with 
a  commission  in  a  dragoon  regiment,  and  had  broken  down 
almost  at  the  outset.  Transactions  at  the  gambling-table  had 
speedil}'  effected  his  ruin  ;  after  a  couple  of  years  in  the  army 
he  had  been  forced  to  sell  out,  had  passed  some  time  in  Hei 


PENDENNIS.  200 

Majesty's  prison  of  the  Fleet,  and  had  tlieu  shipped  over  to 
Ostend  to  join  the  gout}-  exile,  liis  father.  And  in  Belgium, 
France,  and  Germany,  for  some  years,  this  decayed  and  abor- 
tive prodigal  might  be  seen  lurldng  about  billiard-rooms  and 
watering-places,  punting  at  gambling-houses,  dancing  at  board- 
ing-house balls,  and  riding  steeple-chases  on  other  folks' 
horses. 

It  was  at  a  boarding-house  at  Lausanne,  that  Francis 
Clavering  made  what  he  called  the  lucky  coup  of  marrying  the 
widow  Amory,  ver}'  latel}'  returned  from  Calcutta.  His  father 
died  soon  after,  b}-  consequence  of  whose  demise  his  wife  be- 
came Lad}-  Clavering.  The  title  so  delighted  Mr.  Snell  of 
Calcutta,  that  he  doubled  his  daughter's  allowance  ;  and,  dying 
himself  soon  after,  left  a  fortune  to  her  and  her  children,  the 
amount  of  which  was,  if  not  magnified  by  rumor,  something 
very  splendid  indeed. 

Before  this  time  there  had  been,  not  rumors  nnfavorable  to 
Lady  Clavering's  reputation,  but  unpleasant  impressions  regard- 
ing her  ladyship.  The  best  English  people  abroad  were  shy 
of  making  her  acquaintance ;  her  manners  were  not  the  most 
refined ;  her  origin  was  lamentably  low  and  doubtful.  The 
retired  East  Indians,  who  are  to  be  found  in  considerable  force 
in  most  of  the  continental  towns  frequented  by  English,  spoke 
with  much  scorn  of  the  disreputable  old  lawyer  and  indigo- 
smuggler  her  father,  and  of  Amory,  her  first  husband,  who  had 
been  ^ate  of  the  Indiaman  in  which  Miss  Snell  came  out  to 
join  her  father  at  Calcutta.  Neither  father  nor  daughter  was 
in  society  at  Calcutta,  or  had  ever  been  heard  of  at  Government 
House.  Old  Sir  Jasper  Rogers,  who  had  been  Chief  Justice  of 
Calcutta,  had  once  said  to  his  wife,  that  he  could  tell  a  queer 
story  about  Lady  Clavering's  first  husband ;  but  gTeatly  to 
Lady  Rogers's  disappointment,  and  that  of  the  young  ladies 
his  daughters,  the  old  Judge  could  never  be  got  to  reveal  that 
mystery. 

They  were  all,  however,  glad  enough  to  go  to  Lady  Clavering's 
parties,^  when  her  ladyship  took  the  Hotel  Bouilli  in  the  Rue 
Grenelle  at  Paris,  and  blazed  out  in  the  polite  world  there  in 
the  winter  of  183—.  The  Faubourg  St.  Germain  took  her  up. 
Viscount  Bagwig,  our  excellent  ambassador,  paid  her  marked 
attention.  The  princes  of  the  family  frequented  her  salons. 
The  most  rigid  and  noted  of  the  English  ladies  resident  in  the 
French  capital  acknowledged  and  countenanced  her ;  the  vir- 
tuous Ivad}'  Elderbury,  the  severe  Lady  Rockminster,  the  vener- 
able Countess  of  Southdown  —  people,  in  a  word,  renowned  for 

14 


210  PENDENNIS. 

austerity,  and  of  quite  a  dazzling  moral  purit}' :  —  so  great  and 
beneficent  an  influence  had  the  possession  of  ten  (some  said 
twenty)  thousand  a-year  exercised  upon  Lady  Clavering's  char- 
acter and  reputation.  And  her  munificence  and  good-will  were 
unbounded.  An3'body  (in  societ})  who  had  a  scheme  of  charity 
was  sure  to  find  her  purse  open.  The  French  ladies  of  piet}' 
got  money  from  her  to  support  their  schools  and  convents  ;  she 
subscribed  indifferentl}'  for  the  Armenian  patriarch  ;  for  Father 
Barbarossa,  who  came  to  Europe  to  collect  funds  for  his  monas- 
tery on  Mount  Athos  ;  for  the  Baptist  Mission  to  Quash^^boo, 
and  the  Orthodox  Settlement  in  Feefawfoo,  the  largest  and 
most  savage  of  the  Cannibal  Islands.  And  it  is  on  record  of 
her,  that,  on  the  same  da}'  on  which  Madame  de  Cricri  got  five 
Napoleons  from  her  in  support  of  the  poor  persecuted  Jesuits, 
who  were  at  that  time  in  ver}^  bad  odor  in  France,  Lady 
Budelight  put  her  down  in  her  subscription-list  for  the  Rev.  J. 
Rarashorn,  who  had  had  a  vision  which  ordered  him  to  convert 
the  Pope  of  Rome.  And  more  than  this,  and  for  the  benefit 
of  the  worldly,  her  ladyship  gave  the  best  dinners,  and  the 
grandest  balls  and  suppers,  which  were  known  at  Paris  during 
that  season. 

And  it  was  during  this  time,  that  the  good-natured  lady 
must  have  arranged  matters  with  her  husband's  creditors  in 
England,  for  Sir  Francis  re-appeared  in  his  native  country', 
without  fear  of  arrest ;  was  announced  in  the  Morning  Post, 
and  the  county  paper,  as  having  taken  up  his  residence  at 
Mivart's  Hotel ;  and  one  day  the  anxious  old  housekeeper 
at  Clavering  House  beheld  a  carriage  and  four  horses  drive  up 
the  long  avenue,  and  stop  before  the  moss-grown  steps  in  front 
of  the  vast  melancholy  portico. 

Three  gentlemen  were  in  the  carriage  —  an  open  one.  On 
the  back  seat  was  our  old  acquaintance,  Mr.  Tatham  of  Chatteris, 
whilst  in  the  places  of  honor  sat  a  handsome  and  portly  gentle- 
man enveloped  in  mustachios,  whiskers,  fur  collars,  and  braiding, 
and  by  him  a  pale  languid  man,  who  descended  feebly  from  the 
carriage,  when  the  little  lawyer,  and  the  gentleman  in  fur,  had 
nimbly  jumped  out  of  it. 

They  walked  up  the  great  moss-grown  steps  to  the  hall- 
door,  and  a  foreign  attendant,  with  ear-rings  and  a  gold-laced 
cap,  pulled  strenuously  at  the  great  bell-handle  at  the  cracked 
and  sculptured  gate.  The  bell  was  heard  clanging  loudly 
through  the  vast  gloomy  mansion.  Steps  resounded  presently 
upon  the  marble  pavement  of  the  hall  within  ;  and  the  doors 
opened,  and  finally,  Mrs.  Blenkinsop,  the  liousekeeper,  Polly, 


PENDENNIS.  211 

her  aide-de-camp,  and  Smart,  the  keeper,  appeared  bowing 
humbl}-. 

Smart,  the  keeper,  pulled  the  wisp  of  ha3--colored  hair  which 
adorned  his  sunburnt  forehead,  kicked  out  his  left  heel,  as 
if  there  were  a  dog  biting  at  his  cah^es,  and  brought  down 
his  head  to  a  bow.  Old  Mrs.  Blenkinsop  dropped  a  curtsy. 
Little  Polly,  her  aide-de-camp,  made  a  curtsy,  and  several 
rapid  bows  likewise  :  and  Mrs.  Blenkinsop,  with  a  great  deal 
of  emotion,  quavered  out,  "  Welcome  to  Claveriug,  Sir  Francis. 
It  du  my  poor  eyes  good  to  see  one  of  the  family  once  more." 

The  speech  and  the  greetings  were  all  addressed  to  the 
grand  gentleman  in  fur  and  braiding,  who  wore  his  hat  so 
magnificently  on  one  side,  and  twirled  his  mustachios  so  royally. 
But  he  burst  out  laughing,  and  said,  "You've  saddled  the 
wrong  horse,  old  lady  —  I'm  not  Sir  Francis  Clavering  what's 
come  to  revisit  the  halls  of  my  ancestors.  Friends  and  vassals  ! 
behold  your  rightful  lord  !  " 

And  he  pointed  his  hand  towards  the  pale,  languid  gentle- 
man, who  said,  "  Don't  be  an  ass,  Ned." 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Blenkinsop,  I'm  Sir  Francis  Clavering  ;  I  recol- 
lect you  quite  well.  Forgot  me,  I  suppose?  —  Howdj'do?" 
and  he  took  the  old  lady's  trembling  hand ;  and  nodded  in  her 
astonished  face,  in  a  not  unkind  manner . 

Mrs.  Blenkinsop  declared  upon  her  conscience  that  she  would 
have  known  Sir  Francis  anywhere  ;  that  he  was  the  ver}'  image 
of  Sir  Francis  his  father,  and  of  Sir  John  who  had  gone  before. 

"O  yes  —  thanky  —  of  course  —  very  much  obliged  —  and 
that  sort  of  thing,"  Sir  Francis  said,  looking  vacantly  about 
the  hall.  "  Dismal  old  place,  ain't  it,  Ned?  Never  saw  it  but 
once,  when  my  governor  quarrelled  with  m}^  gwandfather,  in 
the  year  twenty-thwee." 

' '  Dismal  ?  —  beautiful  I  —  the  Castle  of  Otranto  !  —  the 
Mysteries  of  Udolpho,  b}'  Jove  !  "  said  the  individual  addressed 
as  Ned.  "What  a  fireplace!  You  might  roast  an  elephant 
in  it.  Splendid  carved  gallery  !  Inigo  Jones,  b}-  Jove  !  I'd 
la}'  five  to  two  it's  Inigo  Jones." 

"  The  upper  part  by  Inigo  Jones  ;  the  lower  was  altered  by 
the  eminent  Dutch  architect.  Vanderputt}',  in  George  the  First 
his  time,  by  Sir  Richard,  fourth  baronet,"  said  the  housekeeper. 

"Oh,  indeed,"  said  the  Baronet.  "  Gad,  Ned,  you  know 
everything." 

"I  know  a  few  things,  Frank,"  Ned  answered.  "I  know 
that's  not  a  Snyders  over  the  mantel-piece  —  bet  j'ou  three  to 
one  it's  a  copy.     We'll  restore  it,  my  boy.     A  lick  of  varnish, 


212  PENDENNIS. 

and  it  will  come  out  wonderfull}',  sir.  That  old  fellow  iu  the 
red  gown,  I  suppose,  is  Sir  Richard." 

"  Sheriff  of  the  county,  and  sat  in  parliament  in  the  reign 
of  Queen  Anne,"  said  the  housekeeper,  wondering  at  the  stran- 
ger's knowledge;  "that  on  the  right  is  Theodosia,  wife  of 
Harbottle,  second  baronet,  by  Lely,  represented  in  the  charac- 
ter of  Venus,  the  Goddess  of  Beaut}', — her  son  Gregor}-,  the 
third  baronet,  by  her  side,  as  Cupid,  God  of  Love,  with  a  bow 
and  arrows ;  that  on  the  next  panel  is  Sir  Rupert,  made  a 
knight  banneret  by  Charles  the  First,  and  whose  property  was 
confuscated  by  Oliver  Cromwell." 

"Thank  you  —  needn't  go  on,  Mrs.  Blenkinsop,"  said  the 
Baronet.  "We'll  walk  about  the  place  ourselves.  Frosch, 
give  me  a  cigar.     Have  a  cigar,  Mr.  Tatham  ?  " 

Little  Mr.  Tatham  tried  a  cigar  which  Sir  Francis's  courier 
handed  to  him,  and  over  which  the  lawyer  spluttered  fearfulh'. 
"  Needn't  come  with  us,  Mrs.  Blenkinsop.  What's-his-name 
—  3'ou  —  Smart  —  feed  the  horses  and  wash  their  mouths. 
Shan't  staj'  long.  Come  along,  Strong,  —  I  know  the  way  : 
I  was  here  in  twenty-thwee,  at  the  end  of  m}'  gwandfather's 
time."  And  Sir  Francis  and  Captain  Strong,  for  such  was  the 
st3-le  and  title  of  Sir  Francis's  friend,  passed  out  of  the  hall 
into  the  reception-rooms,  leaving  the  discomfited  Mrs.  Blen- 
kinsop to  disappear  b}'  a  side-door  which  led  to  her  apartments, 
now  the  onl}'  habitable  rooms  in  the  long-uninhabited  mansion. 

It  was  a  place  so  big  that  no  tenant  could  afford  to  live  in 
it ;  and  Sir  Francis  and  his  friend  walked  through  room  after 
room,  admiring  their  vastness  and  dreary  and  deserted  grandeur. 
On  the  right  of  the  hall  door  were  the  saloons  and  drawing- 
rooms,  and  on  the  other  side  the  oak  room,  the  parlor,  the 
grand  dining-room,  the  library,  where  Pen  had  found  books  in 
old  days.  Round  three  sides  of  the  hall  ran  a  gallery,  by 
which,  and  corresponding  passages,  the  chief  bedrooms  were 
approached,  and  of  which  many  were  of  stately  proportions 
and  exhibited  marks  of  splendor.  On  the  second  story  was 
a  labyrinth  of  little  discomfortable  garrets,  destined  for  the 
attendants  of  the  great  folks  who  inhabited  the  mansion  in  the 
days  when  it  was  first  built:  and  I  do  not  know  any  more 
cheering  mark  of  the  increased  philanthi'op}'  of  our  own  times, 
than  to  contrast  our  domestic  architecture  with  that  of  our 
ancestors,  and  to  see  how  much  better  servants  and  poor  are 
cared  for  at  present,  than  in  times  when  my  lord  and  my  lady 
slept  under  gold  canopies,  and  their  servants  lay  above  them 
in  quarters  not  so  airy  or  so  clean  as  stables  are  now. 


PENDENNIS.  213 

Up  and  down  the  house  the  two  gentlemen  wandered,  the 
owner  of  the  mansion  being  very  silent  and  resigned  about  the 
pleasui'e  of  possessing  it ;  whereas  the  Captain,  his  friend, 
examined  the  premises  with  so  much  interest  and  eagerness 
that  3'ou  would  have  thought  he  was  the  master,  and  the  other 
the  indifterent  spectator  of  the  place.  "I  see  capabilities  in 
it  —  capabilities  in  it,  sLr,"  cried  the  Captain.  "Gad,  sir, 
leave  it  to  me,  and  I'll  make  it  the  pride  of  the  country,  at 
a  small  expense.  What  a  theatre  we  can  have  in  the  library 
here,  the  curtains  between  the  columns  which  divide  the  room ! 
What  a  famous  room  for  a  galop  !  —  it  will  hold  the  whole 
shire.  We'll  hang  the  morning  parlor  with  the  tapestry  in 
your  second  salon  in  the  Rue  de  Grenelle,  and  furnish  the  oak 
room  with  the  Moyen-age  cabinets  and  the  armor.  Armor 
looks  splendid  against  black  oak,  and  there's  a  Venice  glass  in 
the  Quai  Voltaire,  which  will  suit  that  high  mantel-piece  to  an 
inch,  sir.  The  long  saloon,  white  and  crimson,  of  course  ;  the 
drawing-room  yellow  satin ;  and  the  Uttle  drawing-room  light 
blue,  with  lace  over  —  hey?" 

"  I  recollect  my  old  governor  caning  me  in  that  Uttle  room," 
Sir  Francis  said  sententiously  ;  "  he  always  hated  me,  my  old 
governor." 

"Chintz  is  the  dodge,  I  suppose,  for  my  lady's  rooms — • 
the  suite  in  the  landing,  to  the  south,  the  bedroom,  the 
sitting-room,  and  the  dressing-room.  We'll  throw  a  con- 
servatory out,  over  the  balcony.     Where  will  you  have  your 


rooms 


"Put  mine  in  the  north  wing,"  said  the  Baronet,  with  a 
3'awn,  "and  out  of  the  reach  of  Miss  Amory's  confounded 
piano.  I  can't  bear  it.  She's  seweeching  from  morning  till 
night." 

The  Captain  burst  out  laughing.  He  settled  the  whole 
further  arrangements  of  the  house  in  the  course  of  their  walk 
tlirough  it ;  and,  the  promenade  ended,  they  went  into  the 
steward's  room,  now  inhabited  by  Mrs.  Blenkinsop,  and  where 
Mr.  Tatham  was  sitting  poring  over  a  plan  of  the  estate,  and 
the  old  housekeeper  had  prepared  a  collation  in  honor  of  her 
lord  and  master. 

Then  they  inspected  the  kitchen  and  stables,  about  both  of 
which  Sir  Francis  was  rather  interested,  and  Captain  Strong 
was  for  examining  the  gardens:  but  the  Baronet  said,  "D — 
the  gardens,  and  that  sort  of  thing !  "  and  finally'  he  drove 
away  from  the  house  as  unconcernedly  as  he  had  entered  it ; 
and  that  night  the  people  of  Clavering  learned  that  Sir  Francis 


214  PENDENNIS. 

Clavering  had  paid  a  visit  to  the  Park,  and  was  coming  to  Uve 
in  the  county. 

When  this  fact  came  to  be  known  at  Chatteris,  all  the  foiks 
in  the  place  were  set  in  commotion :  High  Church  and  Low 
Church,  half-pa^y  captains  and  old  maids  and  dowagers,  sport- 
ing squu'eens  of  the  vicinage,  farmers,  tradesmen,  and  factory 
people  —  all  the  population  in  and  round  about  the  little  place. 
The  news  was  brought  to  Fairoaks,  and  received  b}'  the  ladies 
there,  and  by  Mr.  Pen,  with  some  excitement.  "Mrs.  Pybus 
says  there  is  a  very  pretty  girl  in  the  family,  Arthur,"  Laura 
said,  who  was  as  kind  and  thoughtful  upon  this  point  as  women 
generally  are  :  "a  Miss  Amor}',  Lady  Clavering's  daughter  by 
her  first  marriage.  Of  course,  you  will  fall  in  love  with  her  as 
soon  as  she  arrives." 

Helen  cried  out,  "  Don't  talk  nonsense,  Laura."  Pen 
laughed,  and  said,  "  Well,  there  is  the  3'oung  Sir  Francis  for 
jou." 

"He  is  but  four  j'ears  old,"  Miss  Laura  replied.  "But  I 
shall  console  m3'self  with  that  handsome  officer.  Sir  Francis's 
friend.  He  was  at  church  last  Sunday,  in  the  Clavering  pew, 
and  his  mustachios  were  beautiful." 

Indeed  the  number  of  Sir  Francis's  family  (whereof  the 
members  have  all  been  mentioned  in  the  above  paragraphs)  was 
pretty  soon  known  in  the  town,  and  everything  else,  as  nearly 
as  human  industr}'^  and  ingenuity  could  calculate,  regarding  his 
household.  The  Park  avenue  and  grounds  were  dotted  now 
with  town  folks  of  the  summer  evenings,  who  made  their  wa}' 
up  to  the  great  house,  peered  about  the  premises,  and  criticised 
the  improvements  which  were  taking  place  there.  Loads  upon 
loads  of  furniture  arrived  in  numberless  vans  from  Chatteris 
and  London  ;  and  numerous  as  the  vans  were,  there  was  not 
one  but  Captain  Glanders  knew  what  it  contained,  and  escorted 
the  baggage  up  to  the  Park  House. 

He  and  Captain  Edward  Strong  had  formed  an  intimate 
acquaintance  by  this  time.  The  3'ounger  Captain  occupied 
those  ver}'  lodgings  at  Clavering,  which  the  peaceful  Smirke 
had  previously  tenanted,  and  was  deep  in  the  good  graces  of 
Madame  Fribsby,  his  landlady  ;  and  of  the  whole  town,  indeed. 
The  Captain  was  splendid  in  person  and  raiment ;  fresh-colored, 
blue-eyed,  black- whiskered,  broad-chested,  athletic  —  a  slight 
tendency  to  fulness  did  not  take  away  from  the  comeliness  of  his 
jolly  figure  —  a  braver  soldier  never  presented  a  broader  chest 
to  the  enemy.  As  he  strode  down  Clavering  High  Sti-eet,  his 
hat  on  one  side,  his  cane  clanking  on  the  pavement,  or  wav- 


PENDENNIS.  215 

iug  round  him  in  the  execution  of  uiilitaiy  cuts  and  soldatesque 
mauoeuNTes  —  his  jolly  laughter  riugiug  through  the  otherwise 
silent  street  —  he  was  as  Avelcome  as  sunshine  to  the  place,  and 
a  comfort  to  ever}'  inhabitant  in  it. 

On  the  first  market-day  he  knew  every  pretty  girl  in  the 
market :  he  joked  with  all  the  women  ;  had  a  word  with  the 
farmers  about  their  stock,  and  dined  at  the  Agricultural  Oidi- 
nary  at  the  Clavering  Arms,  where  he  set  them  all  dying  with 
laughter  b}'  his  fun  and  jokes.  ''  Tu  be  sure  he  be  a  vine  fel- 
ler, tu  be  sure  that  he  be,"  was  the  universal  opinion  of  the 
gentlemen  in  top-boots.  He  shook  hands  with  a  score  of  them, 
as  the}'  rode  out  of  the  inn-ya,rd  on  their  old  nags,  waving  his 
hat  to  them  splendidly  as  he  smoked  his  cigar  in  the  inn-gate. 
In  the  course  of  the  evening  he  was  free  of  the  landlady's  bar, 
knew  what  rent  the  landlord  paid,  how  many  acres  he  farmed, 
how  much  malt  he  put  in  his  strong  beer  ;  and  whether  he  ever 
run  in  a  little  brand}'  unexcised  by  kings  from  Ba3'mouth,  or 
the  fishing  villages  along  the  coast. 

He  had  tried  to  live  at  the  great  house  first ;  but  it  was  so 
dull  he  couldn't  stand  it.  '•'I  am  a  creature  born  for  society," 
he  told  Captain  Glanders.  '•  I'm  down  here  to  see  Clavering's 
house  set  in  order  ;  for  between  ourselves,  Frank  has  no  energy, 
sir,  no  energy ;  he's  not  the  chest  for  it,  sir  (and  he  threw  out 
his  own  trunk  as  he  spoke)  ;  but  I  must  have  social  intercourse. 
Old  Mrs.  Blenkinsop  goes  to  bed  at  seven,  and  takes  Polly  with 
her.  There  was  nobod}'  but  me  and  the  Ghost  for  the  first  two 
nights  at  the  great  house,  and  I  own  it,  sir,  I  like  company-. 
Most  old  soldiers  do." 

Glanders  asked  Strong  where  he  had  served?  Captain 
Strong  curled  his  moustache,  and  said  with  a  laugh,  that  the 
other  miglit  almost  ask  where  he  had  not  served.  ''  I  began, 
sir,  as  cadet  of  Hungarian  Uhlans,  and  when  the  war  of  Greek 
independence  broke  out,  quitted  that  service  in  consequence  of 
a  quarrel  with  my  governor,  and  was  one  of  seven  who  escaped 
from  Missolonghi,  and  was  blown  up  in  one  of  Botzaris's  fire- 
ships,  at  the  age  cf  seventeen.  I'll  show  you  m}'  Cross  of  the 
Redeemer,  if  you'll  come  over  to  my  lodgings  and  take  a  glass 
of  grog  with  me,  Captain,  this  evening.  I've  a  few  of  those 
baubles  in  ray  desk.  I've  the  White  Eagle  of  Poland  ;  Skrzy- 
necki  gave  it  me"  (he  pronounced  Skrzynecki's  name  with 
wonderful  accuracy  and  gusto)  "  upon  the  field  of  Ostrolenko. 
I  was  a  lieutenant  of  the  fourth  regiment,  sir,  and  we  marched 
through  Diebitsch's  lines  —  bang  thro'  'em  into  Prussia,  sir, 
without  firing  a  shot.     Ah,  Captain,  that  was  a  mismanaged 


216  PENDENI^I^S. 

business.  I  received  this  wound  by  the  side  of  the  King  before 
Oporto  —  where  he  would  have  pounded  the  stock-jobbing 
Pedroites,  had  Bourmont  followed  mj'  advice  ;  and  I  served  in 
Spain  with  the  King's  troops,  until  the  death  of  mj'  dear  friend, 
Zumalacarreguj',  when  I  saw  the  game  was  over,  and  hung  up 
my  toasting-iron,  Captain.  Alava  offered  me  a  regiment ;  but  I 
couldn't  —  damme  I  couldn't  —  and  now,  sir,  you  know  Ned 
Strong  —  the  Chevalier  Strong  the}^  call  me  abroad  —  as  well 
as  he  knows  himself." 

In  this  wa}-  almost  everybody  in  Clavering  came  to  know 
Ned  Strong.  He  told  Madame  Fribsb}',  he  told  the  landlord 
of  the  George,  he  told  Baker  at  the  reading-rooms,  he  told 
Mrs.  Glanders,  and  the  3'oung  ones,  at  dinner:  and  finally, 
he  told  Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis,  who,  yawning  into  Clavering 
one  day,  found  the  Chevalier  Strong  in  company'  with  Cap- 
tain Glanders  ;  and  who  was  delighted  with  his  new  acquaint- 
ance. 

Before  many  da^'s  were  over.  Captain  Strong  was  as  much 
at  home  in  Helen's  drawing-room  as  he  was  in  Madame  Fribs- 
by's  first  floor ;  and  made  the  lonely  house  very  gay  with  his 
good-humor  and  ceaseless  flow  of  talk.  The  two  women  had 
never  befoi'e  seen  such  a  man.  He  had  a  thousand  stories 
about  battles  and  dangers  to  interest  them  —  about  Greek  cap- 
tives, Polish  beauties,  and  Spanish  nuns.  He  could  sing  scores 
of  songs,  in  half  a  dozen  languages,  and  would  sit  down  to  the 
piauo  and  troll  them  off  in  a  rich  manly  voice.  Both  the  ladies 
pronounced  him  to  be  delightful  —  and  so  he  was  :  though,  in- 
deed, the}-  had  not  had  much  choice  of  man's  societj^  as  yet, 
having  seen  in  the  course  of  their  lives  but  few  persons,  except 
old  Portman  and  the  Major,  and  Mr.  Pen,  who  was  a  genius,  to 
be  sure  ;  but  then  your  geniuses  are  somewhat  flat  and  moody 
at  home. 

And  Captain  Strong  acquainted  his  new  friends  at  Fairoaks, 
not  only  with  his  own  biography,  but  with  the  whole  history 
of  the  family  now  coming  to  Clavering.  It  was  he  who  had 
made  the  marriage  between  his  friend  Frank  and  the  widow 
Amory.  She  wanted  rank,  and  he  wanted  money.  What 
match  could  be  more  suitable  ?  He  organized  it ;  he  made 
those  two  people  happy.  There  was  no  particular  romantic 
attachment  between  them  ;  the  widow  was  not  of  an  age  or  a 
person  for  romance,  and  Sir  Francis,  if  he  had  his  game  at  bil- 
liards, and  his  dinner,  cared  for  little  besides.  But  they  were 
as  happy  as  people  could  be.  Clavering  would  return  to  his 
native  place  and  countr}',  his  wife's  fortune  would  pay  his  en- 


PENDENNIS.  217 

cumhrances  off,  and  his  son  and  heir  would  be  one  of  the  first 
men  in  the  county. 

"And  Miss  Amor}'?"  Laura  asked.  Laura  was  uncom- 
monl}'^  curious  about  Miss  Amor}-. 

Strong  laughed.  "Oh,  Miss  Amory  is  a  muse  —  Miss 
Amory  is  a  mystery  —  Miss  Amory  is  a  femme  inconi'prise.'^ 
"What  is  that?"  asked  simple  Mrs.  Pendennis  —  but  the 
Chevalier  gave  her  no  answer ;  perhaps  could  not  give  her  one. 
"Miss  Amory  paints,  Miss  Amory  writes  poems,  Miss  Amory 
composes  music,  Miss  Amory  rides  like  Diana  Vernon.  Miss 
Amory  is  a  paragon,  in  a  word." 

"  I  hate  clever  women,"  said  Pen. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Laura.  For  her  part  she  was  sure  she 
should  be  charmed  with  Miss  Amory,  and  quite  longed  to  have 
such  a  friend.  And  with  this  she  looked  Pen  full  in  the  face, 
as  if  every  word  the  Uttle  hypocrite  said  was  Gospel  truth. 

Thus  an  intimacy  was  arranged  and  prepared  beforehand 
between  the  Fairoaks  family  and  their  wealthy  neighbors  at  the 
Park ;  and  Pen  and  Laura  were  to  the  full  as  eager  for  their 
arrival,  as  even  the  most  curious  of  the  Clavering  folks.  A 
Londoner,  who  sees  fresh  faces  and  yawns  at  them  every  day, 
may  smile  at  the  eagerness  with  which  country  people  expect  a 
visitor.  A  cockney  comes  amongst  them,  and  is  remembered 
by  his  rural  entertainers  for  years  after  he  has  left  them,  and 
forgotten  them  very  likely  —  floated  far  away  from  them  on  the 
vast  London  sea.  But  the  islanders  remember  long  after  the 
mariner  has  sailed  away,  and  can  tell  you  what  he  said  and 
what  he  wore,  and  how  he  looked  and  how  he  laughed.  In 
fine,  a  new  arrival  is  an  event  in  the  country  not  to  be  under- 
stood by  us,  who  don't,  and  had  rather  not,  know  who  lives 
next  door. 

"When  the  painters  and  upholsterers  had  done  their  work  in 
the  house,  and  so  beautified  it,  under  Captain  Strong's  superin- 
tendence, that  he  might  well  be  proud  of  his  taste,  that  gentle- 
man announced  that  he  should  go  to  London,  where  the  whole 
family  had  arrived  by  this  time,  and  should  speedily  return  to 
establish  them  in  their  renovated  mansion. 

Detachments  of  domestics  preceded  them.  Carriages  came 
down  by  sea,  and  were  brought  over  from  Baymouth  by  horses 
which  had  previously  arrived  under  the  care  of  grooms  and 
coachmen.  One  day  the  "Alacrity"  coach  brought  down  on 
its  roof  two  large  and  melancholy  men,  who  were  dropped  at 
the  Park  lodge  with  their  trunks,  and  who  were  Messieurs 
Frederic  and  James,  metropolitan  footmen,  who  had  no  obje»' 

8 


218  PENDENNIS. 

tion  to  the  countr}',  and  brought  with  them  state  and  other  suits 
of  the  Clavering  uniform. 

On  another  day,  the  mail  deposited  at  the  gate  a  foreign 
gentleman,  adorned  with  many  ringlets  and  chains.  He  made 
a  great  riot  at  the  lodge  gate  to  the  keeper's  wife  (who,  being  a 
West  countr}-  woman,  did  not  understand  his  Enghsh  or  his 
Gascon  French),  because  there  was  no  carriage  in  waiting  to 
drive  him  to  the  house,  a  mile  off,  and  because  he  could  not 
walk  entire  leagues  in  his  fatigued  state  and  varnished  boots. 
This  was  Monsieur  Alcide  Mirobolant,  formerly  Chef  of  his 
Highness  the  Due  de  Borodino,  of  H.  Eminence  Cardinal  Bee- 
calico,  and  at  present  Chef  of  the  bouche  of  Sir  Clavering, 
Baronet:  —  Monsieur  Mirobolant's  library,  pictures,  and  piano, 
had  arrived  previousl}^  in  charge  of  the  intelligent  3'oung  Eng- 
lishman, his  aide-de-camp.  He  was,  moreover,  aided  b}-  a 
professed  female  cook,  likewise  from  London,  who  had  inferior 
females  under  her  orders. 

He  did  not  dine  in  the  steward's  room,  but  took  his  nutri- 
ment in  solitude  in  his  own  apartments,  where  a  female  servant 
was  affected  to  his  private  use.  It  was  a  grand  sight  to  behold 
him  in  his  dressing-gown  composing  a  menu.  He  alwa3'S  sat 
down  and  played  the  piano  for  some  time  before.  If  inter- 
rupted, he  remonstrated  patheticall}'.  Ever}-  great  artist,  he 
said,  had  need  of  solitude  to  perfectionate  his  works. 

But  we  are  advancing  matters  in  the  fulness  of  our  love  and 
respect  for  Monsieur  Mirobolant,  and  bringing  him  prematurely 
on  the  stage. 

The  Chevalier  Strong  had  a  hand  in  the  engagement  of  all 
the  London  domestics,  and,  indeed,  seemed  to  be  the  master  of 
the  house.  There  were  those  among  them  who  said  he  was  the 
house-steward,  only  he  dined  with  the  family.  Howbeit,  he 
knew  how  to  make  himself  respected,  and  two  of  by  no  means 
the  least  comfortable  rooms  of  the  house  were  assigned  to  his 
particular  use. 

He  was  walking  upon  the  terrace  finally  upon  the  eventful 
day,  when,  amidst  an  immense  jangling  of  bells  from  Clavering 
Church,  where  the  flag  was  flying,  an  open  carriage  and  one  of 
those  travelling  chariots  or  family  arks,  which  only  English 
philo-progenitiveness  could  invent,  drove  rapidly  with  foaming 
horses  through  the  Park  gates,  and  up  to  the  steps  of  the  Hall. 
The  two  battans  of  the  sculptured  door  flew  open.  Two  superior 
officers  in  black,  the  large  and  melanchol^^  gentlemen,  now  in 
liver}-  with  their  hair  in  powder,  the  country  menials  engaged 
to  aid  them,  were  in  waiting  in  the  hall,  and  bowed  like  t^rJ 


PENDENNIS.  2iy 

elms  when  autumn  winds  wail  in  tlie  park.  Through  this  avenue 
passed  Sir  Francis  Clavering  with  a  most  unmoved  face  :  Ladj"- 
Clavering,  with  a  pair  of  bright  black  eyes,  and  a  good-humored 
countenance,  which  waggled  and  nodded  ver}'  graciousl}' :  Mas- 
ter Francis  Clavering,  who  was  holding  his  mamma's  skirt  (and 
who  stopped  the  procession  to  look  at  the  largest  footman, 
whose  appearance  seemed  to  sti-ike  the  young  gentleman),  and 
Miss  Bland}',  governess  to  Master  Francis,  and  Miss  Amorv, 
her  ladyship's  daughter,  giving  her  arm  to  Captain  Strong.  It 
was  summer,  but  fires  of  welcome  were  crackling  in  the  great 
hall  chimne}',  and  in  the  rooms  which  the  family  were  to  oc- 
cupy. 

Monsieur  Mirobolant  had  looked  at  the  procession  from  one 
of  the  lime-trees  in  the  avenue.  "  Elle  est  la,"  he  said,  la3-ing 
his  jewelled  hand  on  his  richly  embroidered  velvet  waistcoat 
with  glass  buttons,  "  Je  t'ai  vue  ;  je  te  benis,  O  ma  sylphide, 
O  mon  ange  ! "  and  he  dived  into  the  thicket,  and  made  his 
wa3'  back  to  his  furnaces  and  saucepans. 

The  next  Sunday  the  same  party  which  had  just  made  its 
appearance  at  Clavering  Park,  came  and  publicly  took  pos- 
session of  the  ancient  pew  in  the  church,  where  so  many  of  the 
Baronet's  ancestors  had  prayed,  and  were  now  kneeling  in 
efRgy.  There  was  such  a  run  to  see  the  new  folks,  that  the 
Low  Church  was  deserted,  to  the  disgust  of  its  pastor ;  and  as 
the  state  barouche,  with  the  grays  and  coachman  in  silver  wig, 
and  solemn  footmen,  drew  up  at  the  old  churchyard  gate,  there 
was  such  a  crowd  assembled  there  as  had  not  been  seen  for 
man}^  a  long  day.  Captain  Strong  knew  everybody,  and  saluted 
for  all  the  company.  The  countr}*  people  vowed  my  lady  was 
not  handsome,  to  be  sure,  but  pronounced  her  to  be  uncommon 
fine  dressed,  as  indeed  she  was  —  with  the  finest  of  shawls,  the 
finest  of  pelisses,  the  brilliantest  of  bonnets  and  wreaths,  and 
a  power  of  rings,  cameos,  brooches,  chains,  bangles,  and  other 
nameless  gimcracks  {  and  ribbons  of  every  breadth  and  color 
of  the  rainbow  flaming  on  her  person.  Miss  Amory  appeared 
meek  in  dove-color,  like  a  vestal  virgin  —  while  Master  Francis 
was  in  the  costume  then  prevalent  of  Rob  Roy  Macgregor,  a 
celebrated  Highland  outlaw.  The  Baronet  was  not  more  ani- 
mated than  ordinarily  —  there  was  a  happy  vacuity  about  him 
which  enabled  him  to  face  a  dinner,  a  death,  a  church,  a  mar- 
riage, with  the  same  indifferent  ease. 

A  pew  for  the  Clavering  servants  was  filled  by  these  domes- 
tics, and  the  enraptured  congregation  saw  the  gentlemen  from 
London   with  "  vlower  on  tlieir   heeds"    and  the  mii-aculous 


220  PENDENNIS. 

coachman  with  his  silver  wig,  take  their  phiccs  in  that  pew  so 
soon  as  his  horses  were  put  up  at  the  Clavering  Arms. 

In  the  course  of  the  sei-vice,  Master  Francis  began  to  make 
such  a  3'elling  in  the  pew,  that  Frederic,  the  tallest  of  the  foot- 
men, was  beckoned  by  his  master,  and  rose  and  went  and 
cari'ied  out  Master  Francis,  who  roared  and  beat  him  on  the 
head,  so  that  the  powder  flew  round  about,  like  clouds  of  in- 
cense. Nor  was  he  pacified  until  placed  on  the  box  of  the 
carriage,  where  he  pla^^ed  at  horses  with  John's  whip. 

"  You  see  the  little  beggar's  never  been  to  church  before,. 
Miss  Bell,"  the  Baronet  drawled  out  to  a  ^oung  lad^'  who  was 
visiting  him  ;  "no  wonder  he  should  make  a  row  :  I  don't  go 
in  town  neither,  but  I  think  it's  right  in  the  countr}^  to  give  a 
good  example  —  and  that  sort  of  thing." 

Miss  Bell  laughed  and  said,  "  The  little  boy  had  not  given 
a  particularly  good  example." 

"  Gad,  I  don't  know,"  said  the  Baronet.  "  It  ain't  so  bad 
neither.  Whenever  he  wants  a  thing,  Frank  alwaj's  cwies,  and 
whenever  he  cwies  he  gets  it." 

Here  the  child  in  question  began  to  howl  for  a  dish  of  sweet- 
meats on  the  luncheon  table,  and  making  a  lunge  across  the 
table-cloth,  upset  a  glass  of  wine  over  the  best  waistcoat  of  one 
of  the  guests  present,  Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis,  who  was  greatly 
annoyed  at  being  made  to  look  foolish  ;  and  at  having  his  spot- 
less cambric  shirt-front  blotched  with  wine. 

"We  do  spoil  him  so,"  said  Lady  Clavering  to  Mrs.  Pen- 
dennis, fondl}'  gazing  at  the  cherub,  whose  hands  and  face 
were  now  frothed  over  with  the  species  of  lather  which  is  in- 
serted in  the  confection  called  meringues  a  la  creme. 

"Gad,  I  was  quite  wight,"  said  the  Baronet.  "He  has 
cwied,  and  he  has  got  it,  you  see.     Go  it,  Fwank,  old  boj'." 

"  Sir  Francis  is  a  ver}^  judicious  parent,"  Miss  Amor}'  whis- 
pered. "Don't  you  think  so,  Miss  Bell?  I  shan't  call  you 
Miss  Bell  —  I  shall  call  you  Laura.  I  admired  j'ou  so  at 
church.  Your  robe  was  not  well  made,  nor  j-our  bonnet  verj- 
fresh.  But  you  have  such  beautiful  gray  e^'es,  and  such  a 
lovely  tint." 

"  Thank  .you,"  said  Miss  Bell,  laughing. 

"  Your  cousin  is  handsome,  and  thinks  so.  He  is  uneasy 
de  sa  personne.  He  has  not  seen  the  world  yet.  Has  he  genius  ? 
Has  he  suffered?  A  lad}^  a  little  woman  in  rumpled  satin  and 
velvet  shoes  —  a  Miss  P3'bus  —  came  here,  and  said  he  has  suf- 
fered. I,  too,  have  suffered,  —  and  you,  Laura,  has  your  heart 
ever  been  touched?" 


PENDENNIS.  221 

Laura  said  "  No  !  "  but  perhaps  blushed  a  little  at  the  idea 
or  the  question,  so  that  the  other  said,  — 

"  Ah,  Laura  !  I  see  it  all.  It  is  the  beau  cousin.  Tell  me 
everything.     I  ah'eady  love  you  as  a  sister." 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  said  Miss  Bell,  smiUng,  "  and  — and 
it  must  be  owned  that  it  is  a  very  sudden  attachment." 

"All  attachments  are  so.  It  is  electricity  —  spontaneity. 
It  is  instantaneous.  I  knew  I  should  love  you  from  the  moment 
I  saw  3'ou.     Do  3'ou  not  feel  it  3ourself ? " 

"  Not  yet,"  said  Laura  ;  "  but  I  dare  say  I  shall  if  I  try." 

"  Call  me  b}'  my  name,  then." 

"  But  I  don't  know  it,"  Laura  cried  out. 

"My  name  is  Blanche  —  isn't  it  a  pretty  name?  Call  me 
by  it." 

"Blanche  —  it  is  very  prett}',  indeed." 

"And  while  mamma  talks  with  that  kind-looking  lady^ 
what  relation  is  she  to  3'Ou?  She  must  have  been  pretty  once, 
but  is  rather  passee  ;  she  is  not  well  gantee,  but  she  has  a  prett}'^ 
hand  —  and  while  mamma  taUvS  to  her,  come  with  me  to  m.y 
own  room,  —  my  own,  own  room.  It's  a  darling  room,  though 
that  hoiTid  creature.  Captain  Strong,  did  arrange  it.  Are  you 
epns  of  him?  He  says  you  are,  but  I  know  better;  it  is  the 
beau  cousin.  Yes  — il  a  de  beaux  yeux.  Je  n^aime  pas  les  blonds, 
ordinairetnent.  Car  Je  suis  blond  vioi  — je  suis  Blanche  et  blonde,"" 
—  and  she  looked  at  her  face  and  made  a  mone  in  the  glass  ; 
and  never  stopped  for  Laura's  answer  to  the  questions  which 
she  had  put. 

Blanche  was  fair,  and  like  a  sylph.  She  had  fair  hair,  with 
green  reflections  in  it.  But  she  had  dark  eyebrows.  She  had 
long  black  e^-elashes,  which  veiled  beautiful  brown  ej'es.  She 
had  such  a  slim  waist,  that  it  was  a  wonder  to  behold ;  and 
such  slim  little  feet,  that  you  would  have  thought  the  grass 
would  hardh'  bend  under  them.  Pier  lips  were  of  the  color  of 
faint  rosebuds,  and  her  voice  warbled  limpidl}' over  a  set  of  the 
sweetest  little  pearly  teeth  ever  seen.  She  showed  them  very 
often,  for  they  were  ver}-  pretty.  She  was  always  smiling,  and 
a  smile  not  only  showed  her  teeth  wonderfull}',  but  likewise 
exhibited  two  lovely  little  pink  dimples,  that  nestled  in  either 
cheek. 

She  showed  Laura  her  drawings,  which  the  other  thought 
charming.  She  played  her  some  of  her  waltzes,  with  a  rapid 
and  brilliant  finger,  and  Laura  was  still  more  charmed.  And 
she  then  read  her  some  poems,  in  French  and  English,  likewise 
of  her  own  composition,  and  which  she  kept  locked  in  her  own 


222  PENDENNIS. 

book  —  her  own  dear  little  book  ;  it  was  bound  in  blue  velvet, 
Avith  a  gilt  lock,  and  on  it  was  printed  in  gold  the  title  of  "Mes 
Larmes." 

' '  Mes  Larmes  !  —  isn't  it  a  pretty  name  ? "  the  3'oung  lady 
continued,  who  was  pleased  with  everything  that  she  did,  and 
did  everything  ver^'  well.  Laura  owned  that  it  was.  She  had 
never  seen  an^'thing  like  it  before  ;  an3'thing  so  lovely,  so  ac- 
complished, so  fragile  and  prett}* ;  warbling  so  prettily,  and 
tripping  about  such  a  pretty  room,  with  such  a  number  of  prett}- 
books,  pictures,  flowers,  round  about  her.  The  honest  and 
generous  country  girl  forgot  even  jealousy  in  her  admiration. 
"  Indeed,  Blanche,"  she  said,  "  everything  in  tlie  room  is  pretty  ; 
and  you  are  the  prettiest  of  all."  The  other  smiled,  looked  in 
the  glass,  went  up  and  took  both  of  Laura's  hands,  and  kissed 
them,  and  sat  down  to  the  piano,  and  shook  out  a  little 
song. 

The  intimacy  between  the  3'oung  ladies  sprang  up  like  Jack's 
Bean-stalk  to  the  skies  in  a  single  night.  The  large  footmen 
were  perpetuall}^  walking  with  little  pink  notes  to  Fairoaks  ; 
where  there  was  a  prett}"  housemaid  in  the  kitchen,  who  might 
possibly  tempt  those  gentlemen  to  so  humble  a  place.  Miss 
Amory  sent  music,  or  Miss  Amory  sent  a  new  novel,  or  a  pic- 
ture from  the  "Journal  des  Modes,"  to  Laura;  or  my  lady's 
compliments  arrived  with  flowers  and  fruit ;  or  Miss  Amory 
begged  and  prayed  Miss  Bell  to  come  to  dinner ;  and  dear 
Mrs.  Pendennis,  if  she  was  strong  enough  ;  and  Mr.  Arthur, 
if  a  humdrum  party  were  not  too  stupid  for  him  ;  and  would 
send  a  pony-carriage  for  Mrs.  Pendennis  ;  and  would  take  no 
denial. 

Neither  Arthur  nor  Laura  wished  to  refuse.  And  Helen, 
who  was,  indeed,  somewhat  ailing,  was  glad  that  the  two  should 
have  their  pleasure  ;  and  would  look  at  them  fondl}'  as  they  set 
forth,  and  ask  in  her  heart  that  she  might  not  be  called  awav 
until  those  two  beings  whom  she  loved  best  in  the  world  should 
be  joined  together.  As  the}-  went  out  and  crossed  over  the 
bridge,  she  remembered  summer  evenings  five-and-twenty  years 
ago,  when  she,  too,  had  bloomed  in  her  brief  prime  of  love  and 
happiness.  It  was  all  over  now.  The  moon  was  looking  from 
the  purpling  sk}",  and  the  stars  glittering  there,  just  as  they 
used  in  the  early  well-remembered  evenings.  He  was  lying- 
dead  far  awa}^  with  the  billows  rolling  between  them.  Good 
God  !  how  well  she  remembered  the  last  look  of  his  face  as  the}' 
parted.  It  looked  out  at  her  through  the  vista  of  long  years, 
as  sad  and  as  clear  as  then. 


PENDENNIS.  223 

So  Mr.  Pen  and  Miss  Laura  found  the  society  at  Clavering 
Park  an  uncommonly  agi'eeable  resort  of  summer  evenings, 
Blanche  vowed  that  she  raffoled  of  Laura ;  and,  very  likel}^ 
Mr.  Pen  was  pleased  with  Blanche.  His  spirits  came  back :  he 
laughed  and  rattled  till  Laura  w^ondered  to  hear  him.  It  was 
not  the  same  Pen,  yawning  in  a  shooting-jacket,  in  the  Fair- 
oaks  parlor,  who  appeared  alert  and  brisk,  and  smiling,  and 
well  dressed,  in  Lady  Clavering's  drawing-room.  SometimOv 
they  had  musiQ.  Laura  had  a  sweet  contralto  voice,  and  sang 
with  Blanche,  who  had  had  the  best  continental  instruction,  and 
was  charmed  to  be  her  friend's  mistress.  Sometimes  Mr.  Pen 
joined  in  these  concerts,  or  oftener  looked  sweet  upon  Miss 
Blanche  as  she  sang.  Sometimes  they  had  glees,  when  Captain 
Strong's  chest  was  of  vast  service,  and  he  boomed  out  in  a  pro- 
digious bass,  of  which  he  was  not  a  little  proud. 

"Good  fellow.  Strong  —  ain't  he,  Miss  Bell?"  Sir  Francis 
would  sa}-  to  her.  ' '  Plays  at  ecarte  with  Lady  Clavering  — 
IDlaj-s  an3'thing.  pitch  and  toss,  pianofort}',  cwibbage  if  you  like. 
How  long  do  you  think  he's  been  staying  with  me  ?  He  came 
for  a  week  with  a  carpet-bag,  and  gad.  he's  been  staying  thwee 
years.  Good  fellow,  ain't  he?  Don't  know  how  he  gets  a 
shillin',  though,  by  Jove  I  don't.  Miss  Lauwa." 

And  yet  the  Chevalier,  if  he  lost  his  monc}'  to  Lady  Claver- 
ing, always  paid  it ;  and  if  he  lived  with  his  friend  for  three 
3'ears,  paid  for  that  too  —  in  good-humor,  in  kindness  and  jovi- 
ality, in  a  thousand  little  services  b}'  which  he  made  himself 
agreeable.  What  gentleman  could  want  a  better  friend  than  a 
man  who  was  always  in  spirits,  never  in  the  way  or  out  of  it, 
and  was  ready  to  execute  an}'  commission  for  his  patron,  whether 
it  was  to  sing  a  scng  or  meet  a  law3'er,  to  fight  a  duel,  or  to 
carve  a  capon? 

Although  Laura  and  Pen  commonl}-  w^ent  to  Clavering  Park 
together,  3'et  sometimes  Mr.  Pen  took  walks  there  unattended 
b}'  her,  and  about  which  he  did  not  tell  her.  He  took  to  fish- 
ing the  Brawl,  w^hich  runs  through  the  Park,  and  passes  not 
very  far  from  the  garden-wall ;  and  by  the  oddest  coincidence, 
Miss  Amory  would  walk  out  (having  been  to  look  at  her 
flowers) ,  and  would  be  quite  surprised  to  see  Mr.  Pendennis 
fishing. 

I  wonder  what  trout  Pen  caught  while  the  3'oung  lady  waa 
looking  on?  or  whether  Miss  Blanche  was  the  prett}'  little  fish 
which  pla3^ed  round  his  23-,  and  which  Mr.  Pen  was  endeavoring 
to  hook  ? 

As  for  Miss  Blanche,  she  had  a  kind  heart ;  and  having,  as 


224  PENDENNIS. 

she  owned,  herself  "  suffered"  a  good  deal  in  the  course  of  her 
brief  life  and  experience  —  why,  she  could  compassionate  other 
susceptible  beings  like  Pen,  who  had  suffered  too.  Her  love 
for  Laura  and  that  dear  Mrs.  Pendennis  redoubled  :  if  they  were 
not  at  the  Park,  she  was  not  easy  unless  she  herself  was  at 
Fairoaks.  She  played  with  Laura  ;  she  read  French  and  Ger- 
man with  Laura  ;  and  Mr.  Pen  read  French  and  German  along 
with  them.  He  turned  sentimental  ballads  of  Schiller  and 
Goethe  into  English  verse  for  the  ladies,  and  Blanche  unlocked 
"  Mes  Larmes"  for  him,  and  imparted  to  him  some  of  the 
plaintive  outpourings  of  her  own  tender  Muse. 

It  appeared  from  these  poems  that  the  3'oung  creature  had 
indeed  suffered  prodigiously.  She  was  familiar  with  the  idea 
of  suicide.  Death  she  repeatedly  longed  for.  A  faded  rose 
inspired  her  with  such  grief  that  you  would  have  thought  she 
must  die  in  pain  of  it.  It  was  a  wonder  how  a  young  creature 
should  have  suffered  so  much  —  should  have  found  the  means 
of  getting  at  such  an  ocean  of  despair  and  passion  (as  a  run- 
away boy  who  will  get  to  sea) ,  and  having  embarked  on  it, 
should  survive  it.  What  a  talent  she  must  have  had  for  weep- 
ing to  be  able  to  pour  out  so  many  of  ' '  Mes  Larmes  !  " 

They  were  not  particularly  briu}*.  Miss  Blanche's  tears, 
that  is  the  truth:  but  Pen,  who  read  her  verses,  thought 
them  very  well  for  a  lad}'  —  and  wrote  some  verses  himself 
for  her.  His  were  very  violent  and  passionate,  very  hot, 
sweet,  and  strong:  and  he  not  only  wrote  verses;  but — Oh, 
the  villain  !  Oh,  the  deceiver !  he  altered  and  adapted  former 
poems  in  his  possession,  and  which  had  been  composed  for  a 
certain  Miss  Emily  Fotheringay,  for  the  use  and  to  the  Chris- 
tian name  of  Miss  Blanche  Amory. 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 

A   LITTLE    INNOCENT. 

"Egad,  Strong,"  one  da}'  the  Baronet  said,  as  the  pair 
were  conversing  after  dinner  over  the  billiard-table,  and  that 
great  unbosomer  of  secrets,  a  cigar;  "Egad,  Strong,  I  wish 
to  the  doose  your  wife  was  dead." 

"So  do  I.  That's  a  cannon,  by  Jove!  But  she  won't; 
she'll  live  for   ever  —  3'ou   see   if   she   don't.      Why  do  you 


PENDENNIS.  22,1 

wish  her  off  the  hooks,  Frank,  inj  boy?"  asked  Captain 
Strong. 

"Because  then  you  might  marry  Missy.  She  ain't  bad- 
looking.  She'll  have  ten  thousand,  and  that's  a  good  bit  of 
money  for  such  a  poor  old  devil  as  you,"  drawled  out  the  other 
gentleman.  ''And  egad,  Strong,  I  hate  her  worse  and  worse 
every  day.     I  can't  stand  her.  Strong  ;  by  gad,  I  can't." 

"  I  wouldn't  take  her  at  twice  the  figure,"  Captain  Strong 
said,  laughing.     ''  I  never  saw  such  a  little  devil  in  m}^  life." 

"  I  should  like  to  poison  her,"  said  the  sententious  Baronet ; 
"  by  Jove  I  should." 

"  Why,  what  has  she  been  at  now?"  asked  his  friend. 

"Nothing  particular,"  answered  Sir  Francis;  "only  her 
old  tricks.  That  girl  has  such  a  knack  of  making  everybody 
miserable  that,  hang  me,  it's  quite  surprising.  Last  night  she 
sent  the  governess  crying  away  from  the  dinner-table.  After- 
wards, as  I  was  passing  Frank's  room,  I  heard  the  poor  little 
beggar  howling  in  the  dark,  and  found  his  sister  had  been 
friglitening  his  soul  out  of  his  bod}',  by  telling  him  stories 
about  the  ghost  that's  in  the  house.  At  lunch  she  gave  my 
lady  a  turn ;  and  though  my  wife's  a  fool,  she's  a  good  soul  — 
I'm  hanged  if  she  ain't." 

"  What  did  Miss}-  do  to  her?"  Strong  asked. 

"Why,  hang  me,  if  she  didn't  begin  talking  about  the  late 
Amor}',  my  predecessor,"  the  Baronet  said,  with  a  grin.  "  She 
got  some  picture  out  of  '  the  Keepsake,'  and  said,  she  was  sure 
it  was  like  her  dear  father.  She  wanted  to  know  where  her 
father's  grave  was.  Hang  her  father  !  Whenever  Miss  Amory 
talks  about  him,  Lady  Clavering  alwa3's  bursts  out  crying  :  and 
the  little  devil  will  talk  about  him  in  order  to  spite  her  mother. 
To-da}'  when  she  began,  I  got  in  a  confounded  rage,  said  I  was 
iier  father,  and  —  and  that  sort  of  thing,  and  then,  sir,  she  took 
a  sh}'  at  me." 

"And  what  did  she  say  about  you,  Frank?"  Mr.  Strong, 
still  laughing,  inquired  of  his  friend  and  patron. 

"Gad,  she  said  I  wasn't  her  father;  that  I  wasn't  fit  to 
comprehend  her ;  that  her  father  must  have  been  a  man  of 
genius,  and  fine  feelings,  and  that  sort  of  thing ;  whereas  I 
had  married  her  mother  for  money." 

"  Well,  didn't  you?"  asked  Strong. 

"It  don't  make  it  any  the  pleasanter  to  hear  because  it's 
true,  don't  you  know,"  Sir  Francis  Clavering  answered.  "  I 
ain't  a  literary  man  and  that ;  but  I  ain't  such  a  fool  as  she 
makes  me  out.     T  don't  know  how  it  is,  but  she  always  man- 


226  PENDENNIS. 

ages  to  —  to  put  me  in  the  hole,  don't  you  understand.  She 
turns  all  the  house  round  her  in  her  quiet  way,  and  with  her 
confounded  sentimental  airs.     I  wish  she  was  dead,  Ned." 

"  It  was  m}'  wife  whom  you  wanted  dead  just  now,"  Strong 
said,  always  in  perfect  good-humor ;  upon  which  the  Baronet, 
with  his  accustomed  candor,  said,  "  Well,  when  people  bore 
my  life  out,  I  do  wish  the}^  were  dead,  and  I  wish  Missy  were 
down  a  well  with  all  my  heart." 

Thus  it  will  be  seen  from  the  above  report  of  this  candid 
conversation  that  our  accomplished  little  friend  had  some 
peculiarities  or  defects  of  character  which  rendered  her  not 
ver^-  popular.  She  was  a  3'oung  lad}-  of  some  genius,  exqui- 
site S3'mpathies  and  considerable  literary  attainments,  living, 
like  many  another  genius,  with  relatives  who  could  not  com- 
prehend her.  Neither  her  mother  nor  her  step-father  were 
persons  of  a  literar}-  turn.  "Bell's  Life"  and  the  "Racing 
Calendar  "  were  the  extent  of  the  Baronet's  reading,  and  Lady 
Clavering  still  wrote  hke  a  school-gui  of  thirteen,  and  witli 
an  extraordinary  disregard  to  grammar  and  spelling.  And  as 
Miss  Amor}^  felt  ver}'  keenly  that  she  was  not  appreciated, 
and  that  she  lived  with  persons  who  were  not  her  equals  in 
intellect  or  conversational  power,  she  lost  no  opportunity  to 
acquaint  her  family  circle  with  their  inferiority  to  herself,  and 
not  onl}'  was  a  martyr,  but  took  care  to  let  ever3'body  know 
that  she  was  so.  If  she  suffered,  as  she  said  and  thought  she 
did,  severe  1}',  are  we  to  wonder  that  a  young  creature  of  such 
delicate  sensibilities  should  shriek  and  cry  out  a  good  deal? 
If  a  poetess  may  not  bemoan  her  lot,  of  what  earthl}-  use  is 
her  Ij're  ?  Blanche  struck  hers  only  to  the  saddest  of  tunes ; 
and  sang  elegies  over  her  dead  hopes,  dirges  over  her  earlj- 
frost-nipt  buds  of  affection,  as  became  such  a  melancholy  fate 
and  Muse. 

Her  actual  distresses,  as  we  have  said,  had  not  been  up  to 
the  present  time  A'ery  considerable :  but  her  griefs  laj^  like 
those  of  most  of  us,  in  her  own  soul  —  that  being  sad  and 
habitually  dissatisfied,  what  wonder  that  she  should  weep? 
So  "  Mes  Larmes  "  dribbled  out  of  her  eyes  an}'  day  at  com- 
mand :  she  could  furnish  an  unlimited  supply  of  tears,  and 
her  faculty  of  shedding  them  increased  by  practice.  For  sen- 
timent is  like  another  complaint  mentioned  by  Horace,  as  in- 
creasing by  self-indulgence  (I  am  sorr}'  to  say,  ladies,  that 
the  complaint  in  question  is  called  the  drops}-) ,  and  the  more 
you  cry,  the  more  jou  will  be  able  and  desirous  to  do  so. 

Missj'^  had  begun  to  gush  at  a  verj'  early  age.     Lamartlne 


PENDENNIS.  227 

was  her  favorite  bard  from  the  period  when  she  first  could 
feel ;  and  she  had  subsequent!}'  improved  her  mind  b}-  a  sedu- 
lous study  of  novels  of  the  great  modern  authors  of  the  French 
language.  There  was  not  a  romance  of  Balzac  and  George 
Sand  which  the  indefatigable  little  creature  had  not  devoured 
by  the  time  she  was  sixteen :  and,  however  little  she  s3Tnpa- 
thized  with  her  relatives  at  home,  she  had  friends,  as  she  said, 
in  the  spirit-world,  meaning  the  tender  Indiana,  the  passionate 
and  poetic  Lelia,  the  amiable  Trenmor,  that  high-souled  con- 
vict, that  angel  of  the  galleys,  —  the  fiery  Stenio,  —  and  the 
other  numberless  heroes  of  the  French  romances.  She  had 
been  in  love  with  Prince  Eodolph  and  Prince  Djalma  while 
she  was  yet  at  school,  and  had  settled  the  divorce  question, 
and  the  rights  of  woman,  with  Indiana,  before  she  had  left  oflf 
pinafores.  The  impetuous  little  lady  pla^'ed  at  love  with  these 
imaginar}-  worthies,  as  a  little  while  before  she  had  played  at 
maternity  with  her  doll.  Pretty  little  poetical  spirits !  it  is 
curious  to  watch  them  with  those  playthings.  To-day  the 
blue-e3ed  one  is  the  favorite,  and  the  black-eyed  one  is 
pushed  behind  the  drawers.  To-morrow  blue-eyes  may  take 
its  turn  of  neglect :  and  it  may  be  an  odious  little  wretch  with 
a  burnt  nose,  or  torn  head  of  hair,  and  no  eyes  at  all,  that 
takes  the  first  place  in  Miss's  affection,  and  is  dandled  and 
caressed  in  her  arms. 

As  novelists  are  supposed  to  know  ever3'thing,  even  the 
scerets  of  female  hearts,  which  the  owners  themselves  do  not 
perhaps  know,  we  ma^'  state  that  at  eleven  years  of  age  Made- 
moiselle Betsi,  as  Miss  Amory  was  then  called,  had  felt  tender 
emotions  towards  a  3'ouug  Savoyard  organ-grinder  at  Paris, 
whom  she  persisted  in  believing  to  be  a  prince  carried  off  from 
his  parents  ;  that  at  twelve  an  old  and  hideous  drawing-master 
—  (but,  ah,  what  age  or  personal  defects  are  proof  against 
woman's  love?)  had  agitated  her  3'oung  heart;  and  that,  at 
thirteen,  being  at  Madame  de  Carmel's  boarding-school,  in  the 
Champs  Ely  sees,  which,  as  everybody  knows,  is  next  door  to 
Monsieur  Rogron's  (Chevalier  of  the  Legion  of  Honor)  pension 
for  3'oung  gentlemen,  a  correspondence  b3'  letter  took  place 
between  the  seduisante  Miss  Betsi  and  two  30ung  gentlemen  of 
the  College  of  Charlemagne,  who  were  pensioners  of  the  Cheva- 
lier Rogron. 

In  the  above  paragraph  our  30ung  friend  has  been  called  b}' 
a  Christian  name,  different  to  that  under  which  we  were  lately 
presented  to  lier.  The  fact  is,  that  Miss  Amor}',  called  Miss}' 
at  home,  had  really  at  the  first  been  christened  Betsy  —  but 


228  PE^v^DENXIS. 

assumed  the  uame  of  Blanche  of  her  own  will  and  fantasy,  and 
crowned .  herself  with  it ;  and  the  weapon  which  the  Baronet, 
her  step-father,  held  in  terror  over  her,  was  the  threat  to  call 
her  publicly  by  her  name  of  Betsj',  by  wliich  menace  he  some- 
times managed  to  keep  the  3'oung  rebel  in  order. 

Blanche  had  had  hosts  of  dear,  dear,  darling  friends  ere 
now,  and  had  quite  a  little  museum  of  locks  of  hair  in  her  treas- 
ure-chest, which  she  had  gathered  in  the  course  of  her  senti- 
mental progress.  Some  dear  friends  had  married :  some  had 
gone  to  other  schools  :  one  beloved  sister  she  had  lost  from  the 
pension,  and  found  again.  Oh,  horror  !  her  darling,  her  Leocadie, 
keeping  the  books  in  her  father's  shop,  a  grocer  in  the  Rue  du 
Bac :  in  fact,  she  had  met  with  a  number  of  disappointments, 
estrangements,  disillusionments,  as  she  called  them  in  her 
prett}^  French  jargon,  and  had  seen  and  suffered  a  great  deal 
for  so  young  a  woman.  But  it  is  the  lot  of  sensibility  to  suffer, 
and  of  confiding  tenderness  to  be  deceived,  and  she  felt  that 
she  was  only  undergoing  the  penalties  of  genius  in  these  pangs 
and  disappointments  of  her  3'oung  career. 

Meanwhile,  she  managed  to  make  the  honest  lady,  her  mother, 
as  uncomfortable  as  circumstances  would  permit ;  and  caused 
her  worthy  step-father  to  wish  she  was  dead.  With  the  excep- 
tion of  Captain  Strong,  whose  invincible  good-humor  was  proof 
against  her  sarcasms,  the  little  lady  ruled  the  whole  house  with 
her  tongue.  If  Lady  Clavering  talked  about  Sparrowgrass 
instead  of  Asparagus,  or  called  an  object  a  hobject,  as  this  un- 
fortunate lady  would  sometimes  do,  Missy  calmly  corrected 
her,  and  frightened  the  good  soul,  her  mother,  into  errors  only 
the  more  frequent  as  she  grew  more  nervous  under  her  daugh- 
ter's eye. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed,  considering  the  vast  interest  which 
the  arrival  of  the  family  at  Clavering  Park  inspired  in  the  in- 
habitants of  the  Uttle  town,  that  Madame  Fribsby  alone,  of  all 
the  folks  in  Clavering,  should  have  remained  unmoved  and  in- 
curious. At  the  first  appearance  of  the  Park  famil}-  in  church, 
Madame  noted  every  article  of  toilette  which  the  ladies  wore, 
from  their  bonnets  to  their  brodequins,  and  took  a  survey  of 
the  attire  of  the  ladies'-maids  in  the  pew  allotted  to  them.  We 
fear  that  Doctor  Portman's  sermon,  though  it  was  one  of  his 
oldest  and  most  valued  compositions,  had  little  effect  upon 
Madame  Fribsby  on  that  da}-.  In  a  ver^^  few  daj's  afterwards, 
she  had  managed  for  herself  an  interview  with  Lady  Clavering's 
oonfideatial  attendant,  in  the  housekeeper's  room  at  the  Park  : 


PENDENNIS.  229 

and  her  cards  in  French  and  English,  stating  tliat  she  received 
the  newest  fashions  from  Paris  from  her  correspondent  Madame 
Victorine,  and  that  she  was  in  the  custom  of  making  court  and 
ball  dresses  for  the  nobility  and  gentry  of  the  shu-e,  were  in  the 
possession  of  Lady  Clavering  and  Miss  Amory,  and  favorably 
received,  as  she  was  happ}'  to  hear,  by  those  ladies. 

Mrs.  Bonner,  Lady  Clavering's  lady,  became  soon  a  great 
frequenter  of  Madame  Fribsby's  drawing-room,  and  partook 
of  man}-  entertainments  at  the  milliner's  expense.  A  meal  of 
green  tea,  scandal,  hot  Sallj-Lunn  cakes,  and  a  little  novel 
reading,  were  alwaj's  at  the  service  of  Mrs.  Bonner,  whenever 
she  was  free  to  pass  an  evening  in  the  town.  And  she  found 
much  more  time  for  these  pleasures  than  her  junior  officer.  Miss 
.^jnory's  maid,  who  seldom  could  be  spared  for  a  holiday,  and 
was  worked  as  hard  as  any  factory  girl  by  that  inexorable  Uttle 
Muse,  her  mistress. 

And  there  was  another  person  connected  with  the  Clavering 
establishment,  who  became  a  constant  guest  of  our  friend,  the 
milliner.  This  was  the  chief  of  the  kitchen.  Monsieur  Mirobo- 
lant,  with  whom  Madame  Fribsb}'  soon  formed  an  intimacy. 

Not  having  been  accustomed  to  the  appearance  or  society  of 
persons  of  the  French  nation,  the  rustic  inhabitants  of  Clavering 
were  not  so  favorably  impressed  by  Monsieur  Alcide's  manners 
and  appearance,  as  that  gentleman  might  have  desired  that 
they  should  be.  He  walked  among  them  quite  unsuspiciously 
upon  the  afternoon  of  a  summer  day,  when  his  services  were 
not  required  at  the  House,  in  his  usual  favorite  costume,  namely, 
his  light  green  frock  or  paletot,  his  crimson  velvet  waistcoat, 
with  blue  glass  buttons,  his  pantalon  Ecossais,  of  a  very  large 
and  decided  check  pattern,  his  orange  satin  neck-cloth,  and  his 
jean-boots,  with  tips  of  shiny  leather,  —  these,  with  a  gold  em- 
broidered cap,  and  richl}-  gilt  cane,  or  other  varieties  of  orna- 
ment of  a  similar  tendency,  fonned  his  usual  holiday  costume, 
in  which  he  flattered  himself  there  was  nothing  remarkable 
(unless,  indeed,  the  beauty  of  his  person  should  attract  obser- 
vation), and  in  which  he  considered  that  he  exhibited  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  gentleman  of  good  Parisian  ton. 

He  walked  then  down  the  street,  grinning  and  ogling  every 
woman  he  met  with  glances,  which  he  meant  should  kill  them 
outright,  and  peered  over  the  railings,  and  in  at  the  windows, 
W'here  females  were,  in  the  tranquil  summer  evening.  But 
Betsy,  Mrs.  Pybus's  maid,  shrank  back  with  a  "  Lor  bless  us  !  " 
as  Alcide  ogled  her  over  the  laurel  bush ;  the  Misses  Baker, 
and  their  mamma,  stared  with  wonder ;  and  presently  a  crowd 


230  PENDEXNIS. 

began  to  follow  the  interesting  foreigner,  of  ragged  urchins 
and  children,  who  left  their  dirt-pies  in  the  street  to  pursue 
him. 

For  some  time  he  thought  that  admiration  was  the  cause 
which  led  these  persons  in  his  wake,  and  walked  on,  pleased 
himself  that  he  could  so  easily  confer  on  others  so  much  harm- 
less pleasure.  But  the  little  children  and  dirt-pie  manufac- 
turers were  presently  succeeded  by  followers  of  a  larger  growth, 
and  a  number  of  lads  and  girls  from  the  factory  being  let  loose 
at  this  hour,  joined  the  mob,  and  began  laughing,  jeering,  hoot- 
ing, and  calling  opprobrious  names  at  the  P>enchman.  Some 
cried  out,  "  Frenchy  !  Frenchy !  "  some  exclaimed  "-Frogs!" 
one  asked  for  a  lock  of  his  hair,  which  was  long  and  in  richly 
flowing  ringlets  ;  and  at  length  the  poor  artist  began  to  per- 
ceive that  he  was  an  object  of  derision  rather  than  of  respect 
to  the  rude  gTinning  mob. 

It  was  at  this  juncture  that  Madame  Fribsb}'  spied  the  un- 
luck}'  gentlcjuan  with  the  train  at  his  heels,  and  heard  the  scorn- 
ful shouts  with  which  thej-  assailed  him.  She  ran  out  of  her 
room,  and  across  the  street  to  the  persecuted  foreigner ;  she 
held  out  her  hand,  and,  addressing  him  in  his  own  language, 
invited  him  into  her  abode  ;  and  when  she  had  housed  him 
fairly  within  her  doOr,  she  stood  bravel}^  at  the  threshold  before 
the  gibing  factor}'  girls  and  boys,  and  said  the}'  were  a  pack  of 
cowards  to  insult  a  poor  man  who  could  not  speak  their  lan- 
guage, and  was  alone  and  without  protection.  The  little  crowd, 
with  some  ironical  cheers  and  hootings,  nevertheless  felt  the 
force  of  Madame  Fribsby's  vigorous  allocution,  and  retreated 
before  her  ;  for  the  old  lady  was  rather  respected  in  the  place, 
and  her  oddity  and  her  kindness  had  made  her  many  friends 
there. 

Poor  Mirobolant  was  grateful  indeed  to  hear  the  language  of 
his  country  ever  so  ill  spoken.  Frenchmen  pardon  our  faults 
in  their  language  much  more  readily  than  we  excuse  their  bad 
English  ;  and  will  face  our  blunders  throughout  a  long  conver- 
sation, without  the  least  propensity  to  grin.  The  rescued  artist 
vowed  that  Madam  Fribsby  was  his  guardian  angel,  and  that 
he  had  not  as  yet  met  with  such  suavity  and  politeness  among 
les  Anglaises.  He  was  as  courteous  and  comphmentary  to  her  as 
if  it  was  the  fairest  and  noblest  of  ladies  whom  he  was  address- 
ing :  for  Alcide  Mirobolant  paid  homage  after  his  fashion  to 
aU  womankind,  and  never  dreamed  of  a  distinction  of  ranks  in 
the  realms  of  beaut}',  as  his  phrase  was. 

A  cream,  flavored  with  pine-apple  —  a  mayonnaise  of  lob- 


PENDENNIS.  231 

ster,  which  he  flattered  himself  was  not  unworthy  ot  his  hand, 
or  of  her  to  whom  he  had  the  honor  to  offer  it  as  an  homage, 
and  a  box  of  preserved  fruits  of  Provence,  were  brought  by 
one  of  the  chefs  aides-de-camp,  in  a  basket,  the  next  day  to 
the  milliner's,  and  were  accompanied  with  a  gallant  note  to  the 
amiable  Madame  Fribsby.  ''  Her  kindness,"  Alcide  said,  "■  had 
made  a  green  place  in  the  desert  of  his  existence,  —  her  suavity 
would  ever  contrast  in  memory  with  the  grossiereie  of  the  rus- 
tic population,  who  were  not  worthy  to  possess  such  a  jewel." 
An  intimac}'  of  the  most  confidential  nature  thus  sprang  up 
between  the  milliner  and  the  chief  of  the  kitchen  ;  but  I  do 
not  know  whether  it  was  with  pleasure  or  mortification  that 
Madame  received  the  declarations  of  friendship  which  the  young 
Alcides  proffered  to  her,  for  he  persisted  in  calling  her,  '•'■  La 
respectable  Fribsbi"  "•  La  veiiueicse  Fribsbi^''''  —  and  in  stating 
that  he  should  consider  her  as  his  mother,  while  he  hoped  she 
would  regard  him  as  her  son.  Ah  !  it  was  not  very  long  ago, 
Fribsby  thought,  that  words  had  been  addressed  to  her  in  that 
dear  French  language,  indicating  a  different  sort  of  attachment. 
And  she  sighed  as  she  looked  up  at  the  picture  of  her  Carabi- 
neer. For  it  is  sm-prising  how  young  some  people's  hearts 
remain  when  their  heads  have  need  of  a  front  or  a  little  hair- 
dye  —  and,  at  this  moment,  Madame  Fribsby,  as  she  told  3'Oung 
Alcide,  felt  as  romantic  as  a  girl  of  eighteen. 

When  the  conversation  took  this  turn  —  and  at  their  first 
intimacy  Madame  Fribsby  was  rather  inclined  so  to  lead  it  — 
Alcide  alwa3's  politely  diverged  to  another  subject :  it  was  as 
his  mother  that  he  persisted  in  considering  the  good  milliner. 
He  would  recognize  her  in  no  other  capacity,  and  with  that 
relationship  the  gentle  lady  was  forced  to  content  herself, 
when  she  found  how  deeply  the  artist's  heart  was  engaged  else- 
where. 

He  was  not  long  before  he  described  to  her  the  subject  and 
origin  of  his  passion. 

"  I  declared  myself  to  her,"  said  Alcide,  lading  his  hand  on 
his  heart,  "in  a  manner  which  was  as  novel  as  I  am  charmed 
to  think  it  was  agi'eeable.  Wliere  cannot  love  penetrate,  re- 
spectable Madame  Fribsbi  ?  Cupid  is  the  father  of  invention  ! 
—  I  inquired  of  the  domestics  what  were  the  plats  of  which 
Mademoiselle  partook  with  most  pleasure  ;  and  built  up  my 
little  battery  accordingly.  On  a  day  when  her  parents  had 
gone  to  dine  in  the  world  (and  1  am  grieved  to  say  that  a  gros- 
sier  dinner  at  a  restaurant,  on  the  Boulevard,  or  in  the  Palais 
Royal,  seemed  to  form  the  delights  of  these  unrefined  persons), 


232  PENDENNIS. 

the  charming  Miss  entertained  some  comrades  of  the  pension  -, 
and  I  advised  myself  to  send  up  a  little  repast  suitable  to  so 
delicate  young  palates.  Her  lovely  name  is  Blanche.  The 
veil  of  the  maiden  is  white ;  the  wreath  of  roses  which  she 
wears  is  white.  I  determined  that  my  dinner  should  be  as 
spotless  as  the  snow.  At  her  accustomed  hour,  and  instead  of 
the  rude  gigot  a  Veau  which  was  ordinarily  served  at  her  too 
simple  table,  I  sent  her  up  a  little  potage  a  la  Reine  —  a  la 
Reine  Blanche  I  called  it,  —  as  white  as  her  own  tint  —  and 
confectioned  with  the  most  fragrant  cream  and  almonds.  I 
then  offered  up  at  her  shrine  a  jilet  de  merlan  a  V Agnes,  and  a 
delicate  jo/a^,  which  I  have  designated  as  Eperlan  a  la  Sainte 
Therese,  and  of  which  my  charming  Miss  partook  with  pleasure. 
I  followed  this  by  two  little  entrees  of  sweet-bread  and  chicken  ; 
and  the  only  brown  thing  which  I  j>ermitted  myself  in  the  en- 
tertainment was  a  little  roast  of  lamb,  which  I  laid  in  a  meadow 
of  spinaches,  surrounded  with  croustillons,  representing  sheep, 
and  ornamented  with  daisies  and  other  savage  flowers.  After 
this  came  my  second  service :  a  pudding  a  la  Heine  Elizabeth 
(who,  Madame  Fribsbi  knows,  was  a  maiden  princess)  ;  a  dish 
of  opal-colored  plovers'  eggs,  which  I  called  Nid  de  tourtereaux 
a  la  Roucoule ;  placing  in  the  midst  of  them  two  of  those  tender 
volatiles,  billing  each  other,  and  confectioned  with  butter ;  a 
basket  containing  little  gateaux  of  apricots,  which,  I  know,  all 
young  ladies  adore  ;  and  a  jeily  of  maz'asquin,  bland,  insinuat- 
ing, intoxicating  as  the  glance  of  beauty.  This  I  designated 
Ambroisie  de  Calypso  a  la  Souveraine  de  mon  cceur.  And  when 
the  ice  was  brought  in  —  an  ice  of  plombiere  and  cherries  —  how 
do  3'ou  think  I  had  shaped  them,  Madame  Fribsbi?  In  the 
form  of  two  hearts  united  with  an  arrow,  on  which  I  had  laid, 
before  it  entered,  a  bridal  veil  in  cut-paper,  surmounted  by  a 
wreath  of  virginal  orange-flowers.  I  stood  at  the  door  to  watch 
the  effect  of  this  entry.  It  was  but  one  cry  of  admiration. 
The  three  3'oung  ladies  filled  their  glasses  with  the  sparkling 
Ay,  and  carried  me  in  a  toast.  I  heard  it  —  I  heard  Miss  speak 
of  me  —  I  heard  her  say,  '  Tell  Monsieur  Mirobolant  that  we 
thank  him  —  we  admire  him  —  we  love  him  ! '  My  feet  almost 
failed  me  as  I  spoke. 

"  Since  that,  can  I  have  any  reason  to  doubt  that  the  young 
artist  has  made  some  progress  in  the  heart  of  the  English  Miss  ? 
I  am  modest,  but  m}'  glass  informs  me  that  I  am  not  ill-looking. 
Other  victories  have  convinced  me  of  the  fact." 

'*  Dangerous  man  !  "  cried  the  milliner. 

"The  blond  misses  of  Albion  see  nothing  in  the  dull  inhabi- 


'DOES  ANYBODY  WANT  MORE?" 

Thackeray,  Vol.  Three 


PENDENNIS.  233 

tants  of  their  brumous  isle,  which  can  compare  with  the  ardor 
and  vivacit}-  of  the  children  of  the  South.  We  bring  our  sun- 
shine with  us  ;  we  are  Frenchmen,  and  accustomed  to  conquer. 
Were  it  not  for  this  affair  of  the  heart,  and  m}'  determination 
to  marry  an  Anglaise,  do  you  think  I  would  stop  in  this  island 
(which  is  not  altogether  ungrateful,  since  I  have  found  here 
a  tender  mother  in  the  respectable  Madame  Fribsbi),  in  this 
island,  in  this  family?  My  genius  would  use  itself  in  the  com- 
pany of  these  rustics  —  the  poesy  of  m^-  art  cannot  be  under- 
stood b}'  these  carnivorous  insularies.  No  —  the  men  are 
odious,  but  the  women  —  the  w^omen !  I  own,  dear  Fribsbi,  are 
seducing  !  I  have  vowed  to  marr}'  one  ;  and  as  I  cannot  go 
into  your  markets  and  purchase,  according  to  the  custom  of 
the  country,  I  am  resolved  to  adopt  another  custom,  and  fly 
with  one  to  Gretna  Grin.  The  blond  Miss  will  go.  She  is 
fascinated.  Her  cA'es  have  told  me  so.  The  white  dove  wants 
but  the  signal  to  fl}'." 

' '  Have  you  an}'  correspondence  with  her  ?  "  asked  Fribsb}-, 
in  amazement,  and  not  knowing  whether  the  young  lad}'  or  the 
lover  might  be  laboring  under  a  romantic  delusion. 

"  I  correspond  with  her  b}'  means  of  m}'  art.  She  partakes 
of  dishes  which  I  make  expressl}-  for  her.  I  insinuate  to  her 
thus  a  thousand  hints,  which,  as  she  is  perfectly  spiritual,  she 
receives.     But  I  want  other  intelligences  near  her." 

"  There  is  Pincott,  her  maid,"  said  Madame  Fribsby,  who, 
b\'  aptitude  or  education,  seemed  to  have  some  knowledge  of 
affairs  of  the  heart,  but  the  great  artist's  brow  darkened  at  this 
suggestion. 

"  Madame,"  he  said,  "there  are  points  upon  which  a  gal- 
lant man  ought  to  silence  himself;  though,  if  he  break  the  se- 
cret, he  ma}'  do  so  with  the  least  impropriety  to  his  best  friend 
—  his  adopted  motlier.  Know  then,  that  there  is  a  cause  why 
IMiss  Pincott  should  be  hostile  to  me  —  a  cause  not  uncommon 
with  your  sex  —  jealousy^" 

"  Perfidious  monster !  "  said  the  confidante. 

"  Ah,  no,"  said  the  artist,  with  a  deep  bass  A'oice,  and  a 
tragic  accent  worthy  of  the  Porte  St.  Martin  and  his  favorite 
melo-drames,  "  not  perfidious,  but  fatal.  Yes,  I  am  a  fatal 
man,  Madame  Fribsbi.  To  inspire  hopeless  passion  is  my 
destiny.  I  cannot  help  it  that  women  love  me.  Is  it  my  fault 
that  that  young  woman  de-perishes  and  languishes  to  the  view 
of  the  eye,  consumed  by  a  flame  wliich  I  cannot  return? 
Listen  !  There  are  others  in  this  family  who  are  similarly  un- 
happy.    The  governess  of  the  vonng  Milor  has  encountered  me 


234  PENDENNIS. 

in  Tciy  walks,  and  looked  at  me  in  a  waj'  which  can  bear  but 
one  interpretation.  And  Milady  herself,  who  is  of  mature  age, 
but  who  has  oriental  blood,  has  once  or  twice  addressed  com- 
pliments to  the  loneh"  artist  which  can  admit  of  no  mistake. 
I  avoid  the  household.  I  seek  solitude,  I  undergo  my  destiny. 
I  can  marry  but  one,  and  am  resolved  it  shall  be  to  a  lady  of 
your  nation.  And,  if  her  fortune  is  sufficient,  I  think  Miss  would 
be  the  person  who  would  be  most  suitable.  I  wish  to  ascertain 
what  her  means  are  before  I  lead  her  to  Gretna  Grin." 

Whether  Alcide  was  as  irresistible  a  conqueror  as  his  name- 
sake, or  whether  he  was  simply  crazy,  is  a  point  which  must 
be  left  to  the  reader's  judgment.  But  the  latter,  if  he  has 
had  the  benefit  of  much  French  acquaintance,  has  perhaps  met 
with  men  amongst  them  who  fancied  themselves  almost  as 
invincible ;  and  who,  if  you  credit  them,  have  made  equal 
havoc  in  the  hearts  of  les  Anglaises. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

CONTAINS  BOTH  LOVE  AND  JEALOUSY. 

Our  readers  have  already'  heard  Sir  Francis  Clavering's  can- 
did opinion  of  the  lady  who  had  given  him  her  fortune  and 
restored  him  to  his  native  country  and  home,  and  it  must  be 
owned  that  the  Baronet  was  not  far  wrong  in  his  estimate  of 
his  wife,  and  that  Lady  Clavering  was  not  the  wisest  or  the  best 
educated  of  women.  She  had  had  a  couple  of  3'ears'  education 
in  Europe,  in  a  suburb  of  London,  which  she  persisted  in  call- 
ing Ackney  to  her  d}ing  day,  whence  she  had  been  summoned  to 
join  her  father  at  Calcutta  at  the  age  of  fifteen.  And  it  was  on 
her  voyage  thither,  on  board  the  Ramchunder  East  Indiaman, 
Captain  Bragg,  in  which  ship  she  had  two  3-ears  previousl}' 
made  her  journey  to  Europe,  that  she  formed  the  acquaintance 
of  her  first  husband,  Mr.  Amory,  who  was  third  mate  of  the 
vessel  in  question. 

We  are  not  going  to  enter  into  the  early  part  of  Lady 
Clavering's  history,  but  Captain  Bragg,  under  whose  charge 
Miss  Snell  went  out  to  her  father,  who  was  one  of  the  Captain's 
consignees,  and  part  owner  of  the  Ramchunder  and  many 
other  vessels,  found  reason  to  put  the  rebellious  rascal  of  a 
mate  in  irons,  until  they  reached  the  Cape,  where  the  Captain 


PENDENNIS.  235 

left  his  officer  behind :  and  finall}-  delivered  his  ward  to  her 
father  at  Calcutta,  after  a  stonu}-  and  perilous  voyage  in  which 
the  Ramchuuder  and  the  cargo  aud  pasisengers  incurred  no  small 
danger  aud  damage. 

Some  months  afterwards  Amory  made  his  appearance  at 
Calcutta,  having  worked  his  wa}'  out  before  the  mast  from  the 
Cape — married  the  rich  attorney's  daughter  in  spite  of  that 
old  speculator  —  set  up  as  indigo  planter  and  failed  —  set  up  as 
agent  and  failed  again  —  set  up  as  editor  of  the  "  Sunderbund 
Pilot "  and  failed  again  —  quarrelling  ceaselessl}-  with  his  father- 
in-law  and  his  wife  during  the  progress  of  all  these  mercantile 
transactions  and  disasters,  and  ending  his  career  finally  with  a 
crash  which  compelled  him  to  leave  Calcutta  and  go  to  New 
South  Wales.  It  was  in  the  course  of  these  luckless  proceed- 
ings, that  Mr.  Amorj'  probabl}-  made  the  acquaintance  of  Sir 
Jasper  Rogers,  the  respected  Judge  of  the  Supreme  Court  of 
Calcutta,  who  has  been  mentioned  before,  and,  as  the  truth 
must  out,  it  was  by  making  an  improper  use  of  his  father- 
in-law's  name,  who  could  write  perfectly  well,  and  had  no  need 
of  an  amanuensis,  that  fortune  flnall}'  forsook  Mr.  Amory  and 
caused  him  to  abandon  all  further  struggles  with  her. 

Not  being  in  the  habit  of  reading  the  Calcutta  law-reports 
ver}'  assiduously,  the  European  public  did  not  know  of  these 
facts  as  well  as  people  did  in  Bengal,  and  Mrs.  Amoi'y  and 
her  father,  finding  her  residence  in  India  not  a  comfortable  one, 
it  was  agreed  that  the  lady  should  return  to  Europe,  whither 
she  came  with  her  little  daughter,  Betsy  or  Blanche,  then  four 
years  old.  They  were  accompanied  by  Betsy's  nurse,  who  has 
been  presented  to  the  reader  in  the  last  chapter  as  the  confiden- 
tial maid  of  Lady  Clavering,  Mrs.  Bonner :  and  Captain  Bragg 
took  a  house  for  them  in  the  near  neighborhood  of  his  residence 
in  Pocklington  Street. 

It  was  a  very  hard  bitter  summer,  and  the  rain  it  rained 
every  da}'  for  some  time  after  Mrs.  Amory 's  arrival.  Bragg 
was  very  pompous  and  disagreeable,  perhaps  ashamed,  perhaps 
anxious,  to  get  rid  of  the  Indian  lady.  She  believed  that  all 
the  world  in  London  was  talking  about  her  husband's  disaster, 
and  that  the  King  and  Queen  and  the  Court  of  Directors  were 
aware  of  her  unlucky  history.  She  had  a  good  allowance  from 
ner  father ;  she  had  no  call  to  live  in  England  ;  and  she  deter- 
mined to  go  abroad.  Away  she  went,  then,  glad  to  escape 
the  gloomy  surveillance  of  the  odious  bully.  Captain  Bragg. 
People  had  no  objection  to  receive  her  at  the  continental  towns 
where  she  stopped,  and  at  the  various  boarding-houses,  wher« 


236  PENDENNIS. 

she  royally  paid  her  way.  She  called  Hackney  Ackney,  to  be 
sure  (though  otherwise  she  spoke  English  with  a  little  foreign 
twang,  very  curious  and  not  unpleasant)  ;  she  dressed  amaz- 
ingly ;  she  was  conspicuous  for  her  love  of  eating  and  drinking, 
and  prepared  curries  and  pillaus  at  everj'  boarding-house  which 
she  frequented  ;  but  her  singularities  of  language  and  behavior 
only  gave  a  zest  to  her  society,  and  Mrs.  Amor}-  was  deservedly 
popular.  She  was  the  most  good-natured,  jovial,  and  generous 
of  women.  She  was  up  to  any  party  of  pleasure  by  whomso- 
ever proposed.  She  brought  three  times  more  champagne  and 
fowls  and  ham  to  the  picnics  than  any  one  else.  She  took 
endless  boxes  for  the  play,  and  tickets  for  the  masked  balls, 
and  gave  them  away  to  ever3'bod3-.  She  paid  the  boarding- 
house  people  months  beforehand ;  she  helped  poor  shabby 
mustachioed  bucks  and  dowagers,  whose  remittances  had  not 
arrived,  with  constant  supplies  from  her  purse  ;  and  in  this  way 
she  tramped  through  Europe,  and  appeai'ed  at  Brussels,  at  Paris, 
at  Milan,  at  Naples,  at  Rome,  as  her  fancy  led  her.  News  of 
Amory's  death  reached  her  at  the  latter  place,  where  Captain 
Clavering  was  then  staying,  unable  to  pay  his  hotel  bill,  as, 
indeed,  was  his  friend  the  ChevaUer  Strong,  and  the  good- 
natured  widow  married  the  descendant  of  the  ancient  house 
of  Clavering  —  professing,  indeed,  no  particular  grief  for  the 
scapegrace  of  a  husband  whom  she  had  lost :  and  thus  we  have 
brought  her  up  to  the  present  time  when  she  was  mistress  of 
Clavering  Park. 

Missy  followed  her  mamma  in  most  of  her  peregrinations, 
and  so  learned  a  deal  of  life.  She  had  a  governess  for  some 
time  ;  and  after  her  mother's  second  marriage,  the  benefit  of 
Madame  de  Caramel's  select  pension  in  the  Champs  Ely  dees. 
When  the  Claverings  came  to  England,  she  of  course  came  with 
them.  It  was  only  within  a  few  years,  after  the  death  of  her 
grandfather,  and  the  birth  of  her  little  brother,  that  she  began 
to  understand  that  her  position  in  life  was  altered,  and  that 
Miss  Amory,  nobody's  daughter,  was  a  ver^-  small  personage 
in  a  house  compared  with  Master  Francis  Clavering,  heir  to  an 
ancient  baronetc}-,  and  a  noble  estate.  But  for  little  Frank, 
she  would  have  been  an  heiress,  in  spite  of  her  father :  and 
though  she  knew  and  cared  not  much  about  money,  of  which 
she  never  had  any  stint,  and  though  she  was  a  romantic  little 
Muse,  as  we  have  seen,  yet  she  could  not  reasonabl}-  be  grate- 
ful to  the  persons  who  had  so  contributed  to  change  her  con- 
dition :  nor,  indeed,  did  she  understand  what  the  matter  really 
was,  until  she  had  made  some  further  progress,  and  acquired 
more  accurate  knowledge  of  the  world. 


PENDENNIS.  237 

But  this  was  clear,  that  her  step-father  was  dull  and  weak : 
that  mamma  dropped  her  H's,  and  was  not  refined  in  man- 
ners or  appearance  ;  and  that  little  Frank  was  a  spoiled  quar- 
relsome urchin,  always  having  his  way,  alwa3'S  treading  upon 
her  feet,  always  upsetting  his  dinner  on  her  dresses,  and  keep- 
ing her  out  of  her  inheritance.  None  of  these,  as  she  felt, 
could  comprehend  her :  and  her  solitary-  heart  naturally  pined 
for  other  attachments,  and  she  sought  around  her  where  to 
bestow  the  precious  boon  of  her  unoccupied  affection. 

This  dear  girl,  then,  from  want  of  sympathy,  or  other  cause, 
made  herself  so  disagreeable  at  home,  and  frightened  her 
mother,  and  bored  her  step-father  so  much,  that  they  were  quite 
as  anxious  as  she  could  be  that  she  should  settle  for  herself 
in  life ;  and  hence  Sir  Francis  Clavering's  desire  expressed  to 
his  friend,  in  the  last  chapter,  that  Mrs.  Strong  should  die, 
and  that  he  would  take  Blanche  to  himself  as  a  second  Mrs. 
Strong. 

But  as  this  could  not  be,  any  other  person  was  welcome  to 
win  her :  and  a  smart  young  fellow,  well-looking  and  well- 
educated,  like  our  friend  Arthur  Pendennis,  was  quite  free  to 
propose  for  her  if  he  had  a  mind,  and  would  have  been  received 
mth  open  arms  by  Lady  Clavering  as  a  son-in-law,  had  he  had 
the  courage  to  come  forward  as  a  competitor  for  Miss  Amory's 
hand. 

Mr.  Pen,  however,  besides  other  drawbacks,  chose  to  enter- 
tain an  extreme  dilHdence  about  himself.  He  was  ashamed 
of  his  late  failures,  of  his  idle  and  nameless  condition,  of  the 
poverty  which  he  had  brought  on  his  mother  by  his  foil}-,  and 
there  was  as  much  of  vanity  as  remorse  in  his  present  state  of 
doubt  and  distrust.  How  could  he  ever  hope  for  such  a  prize 
as  this  brilliant  Blanche  Amory,  who  lived  in  a  fine  park  and 
mansion,  and  was  waited  on  by  a  score  of  grand  domestics, 
whilst  a  maid-servant  brought  in  their  meagre  meal  at  Fairoaks, 
and  his  mother  was  obliged  to  pinch  and  manage  to  make  both 
ends  meet?  Obstacles  seemed  to  him  insurmountable,  which 
would  have  vanished  had  he  marched  manfull}'  upon  them  : 
and  he  preferred  despairing,  or  dallying  with  his  wishes,  —  or 
perhaps  he  had  not  positiveh-  shaped  them  as  yet,  —  to  attempt- 
ing to  win  gallantly  the  object  of  his  desire.  Many  a  young 
man  fails  by  that  species  of  vanity  called  shyness,  who  might, 
for  the  asking,  has'e  his  will. 

But  we  do  not  pretend  to  say  that  Pen  had,  as  yet,  ascer- 
tained his :  or  that  he  was  doing  much  more  than  thinking 
about  falling  in  love.     Miss  Amor}-  was  charming  and  livelj. 


238  PENDENNIS. 

She  fascinated  and  cajoled  him  by  a  thousand  arts  or  natural 
graces  or  flatteries.  But  there  were  hu'king  reasons  and  doubts, 
besides  sh^'ness  and  vanity,  withholding  him.  In  spite  of  her 
cleverness,  and  her  protestations,  and  her  fascinations.  Pen's 
mother  had  divined  the  girl,  and  did  not  trust  her.  Mrs.  Pen- 
dennis  saw  Blanche  light-minded  and  frivolous,  detected  many 
wants  in  her  which  offended  the  pure  and  pious-minded  lady  ; 
a  want  of  reverence  for  her  parents,  and  for  things  more  sacred, 
Helen  thought :  worldliness  and  selfishness  couched  under  pretty 
words  and  tender  expressions.  Laura  and  Pen  battled  these 
points  strong!}'  at  first  with  the  widow  —  Laura  being  as  yet 
enthusiastic  about  her  new  friend,  and  Pen  not  far-gone  enough 
in  love  to  attempt  an}'  concealment  of  his  feelings.  He  would 
laugh  at  these  objections  of  Helen's,  and  say,  "•  Psha,  mother  ! 
3'ou  are  jealous  about  Laura  —  all  women  are  jealous." 

But  when,  in  the  course  of  a  month  or  two,  and  by  watching 
the  pair  with  that  anxiet}'  with  which  brooding  women  watch 
over  their  sons'  affections  —  and  in  acknowledging  which,  I 
have  no  doubt  there  is  a  sexual  jealousy  on  the  mother's  part, 
and  a  secret  pang  —  when  Helen  saw  that  the  intimac}^  appeared 
to  make  progress,  that  the  two  young  people  were  perpetuallv 
finding  pretexts  to  meet,  and  that  Miss  Blanche  was  at  Fair- 
oaks  or  Mr.  Pen  at  the  Park  every  day,  the  poor  widow's  heart 
began  to  fail  her  —  her  darling  project  seemed  to  vanish  before 
her ;  and,  giving  wa}'  to  her  weakness,  she  fairly  told  Pen  one 
day  what  her  views  and  longings  were  ;  that  she  felt  herself 
breaking,  and  not  long  for  this  world,  and  that  she  hoped  and 
prayed  before  she  went,  that  she  might  see  her  two  children 
one.  The  late  events.  Pen's  life  and  career  and  former  passion 
for  the  actress,  had  broken  the  spirit  of  this  tender  lady.  She 
felt  that  he  had  escaped  her,  and  was  in  the  maternal  nest  no 
more ;  and  she  clung  with  a  sickening  fondness  to  Laura, 
Laura  who  had  been  left  to  her  b}^  Francis  in  Heaven. 

Pen  kissed  and  soothed  her  in  his  grand  patronizing  way. 
He  had  seen  something  of  this,  he  had  long  thought  his  mother 
wanted  to  make  this  marriage  —  did  Laura  know  anything  of 
it?  (Not  she,  —  Mrs.  Pendennis  said  —  not  for  worlds  would 
she  have  breathed  a  word  of  it  to  Laura)  —  "  Well,  well,  there 
was  time  enough,  his  mother  wouldn't  die,"  Pen  said,  laugh- 
ingly:  "he  wouldn't  hear  of  an}^  such  thing,  and  as  for  the 
Muse,  she  is  too  grand  a  lady  to  think  about  poor  little  me  — 
and  as  for  Laura,  who  knows  that  she  would  have  me  ?  She 
would  do  anything  you  told  her,  to  be  sure.  But  am  I  worthy 
of  her?" 


PENDENXIS.  2-^9 

"  0  Pen,  you  might  be,"  was  the  widow's  reply  ;  not  that 
Mr.  Pen  ever  doubted  that  he  was  ;  and  a  feeling  of  indefinable 
pleasure  and  self-complacency  came  over  him  as  he  thought 
over  this  proposal,  and  imaged  Laura  to  himself,  as  his  mem- 
or}''  remembered  her  for  jears  past,  always  fair  and  open, 
kindh'  and  pious,  cheerful,  tender,  and  true.  He  looked  at 
her  with  brightening  eyes  as  she  came  in  from  the  garden  at 
the  end  of  this  talk,  her  cheeks  rather  flushed,  her  looks  frank 
and  smiling  —  a  basket  of  roses  in  her  hand. 

She  took  the  finest  of  them  and  brought  it  to  Mrs.  Penden- 
nis,  who  was  refreshed  by  the  odor  and  color  of  these  flowers ; 
and  hung  over  her  fondly  and  gave  it  to  her. 

"  And  I  might  have  this  prize  for  the  asking  !  "  Pen  thought, 
with  a  thrill  of  triumph,  as  he  looked  at  the  kindl}'  girl.  "■  '^^'h3^ 
she  is  as  beautiful  and  as  generous  as  her  roses."  The  image 
of  the  two  women  remained  for  ever  after  in  his  mind,  and  he 
never  recalled  it  but  the  tears  came  into  his  eyes. 

Before  ver^'  many  weeks'  intimac}'  with  her  new  acquaint- 
ance, however.  Miss  Laura  was  obUged  to  give  in  to  Helen's 
opinion,  and  own  that  the  Muse  was  selfish,  unkind,  and  incon- 
stant. 

Little  Frank,  for  instance,  might  be  ver}^  provoking,  and 
might  have  deprived  Blanche  of  her  mamma's  affection,  but  this 
was  no  reason  wh}'  Blanche  should  box  the  child's  ears  because 
he  upset  a  glass  of  water  over  her  drawing,  and  wh}-  she  should 
call  him  many  opprobrious  names  in  the  English  and  French 
language  ;  and  the  preference  accorded  to  little  Frank  was  cer- 
tainly no  reason  why  Blanche  should  give  herself  imperial  airs 
of  command  towards  the  bo^^'s  governess,  and  send  that  .young 
lady  upon  messages  through  the  house  to  bring  her  book  or  to 
fetch  her  pocket-handkerchief.  When  a  domestic  performed 
an  errand  for  honest  Laura,  she  was  always  thankful  and 
pleased  ;  whereas,  she  could  not  but  perceive  that  the  little 
Muse  had  not  the  slightest  scruple  in  giving  her  commands  to 
all  the  world  round  about  her,  and  in  disturbing  an3-body's  ease 
or  comfort,  in  order  to  administer  to  her  own.  It  was  Laura's 
first  experience  in  friendship  ;  and  it  pained  the  kind  creature's 
heart  to  be  obliged  to  give  up  as  delusions,  one  b}'  one,  those 
charms  and  brilliant  qualities  in  which  her  fancy  had  dressed 
her  new  friend,  and  to  find  that  the  fascinating  little  fairy  was 
but  a  mortal,  and  not  a  very  amiable  mortal  after  all.  What 
generous  person  is  there  that  has  not  been  so  deceived  in  his 
time?  —  what  person,  perhaps,  that  has  not  so  disapjwinted 
others  in  his  turn  ? 


240  PEN^DENNIS. 

After  the  scene  with  little  Frank,  in  which  that  refractorj, 
son  and  heir  of  the  house  of  Clavering  had  received  the  compli. 
ments  in  French  and  English,  and  the  accompanying  box  on  the 
ear  from  his  sister,  Miss  Laura,  who  had  plent}^  of  humor, 
could  not  help  calling  to  mind  some  very  touching  and  tender 
verses  which  the  Muse  had  read  to  her  out  of  Mes  Larmes,  and 
which  began,  "  M}'  prett}'  baby  brother,  ma}'  angels  guard  thy 
rest,"  in  which  the  Muse,  after  complimenting  the  bab}'  upon 
the  station  in  life  which  it  was  about  to  occup}-,  and  contrasting 
it  with  her  own  lonely  condition,  vowed  nevertheless  that  the 
angel  bo}'  would  never  enjoy  such  aifection  as  hers  was,  or  find 
in  the  false  world  before  him  an3'thing  so  constant  and  tender 
as  a  sister's  heart.  "  It  ma}^  be,"  the  forlorn  one  said,  "  it  maj^ 
be,  you  will  slight  it,  my  pretty  baby  sweet.  You  will  spurn  me 
from  your  bosom,  I'll  cling  around  your  feet !  Oh,  let  me,  let 
me  love  you !  the  world  will  prove  to  you  As  false  as  'tis  to 
others,  but  /am  ever  true."  And  behold  the  Muse  was  boxing 
the  darling  brother's  ears  instead  of  kneeling  at  his  feet,  and 
giving  Miss  Laura  her  first  lesson  in  the  Cynical  philosophy  — 
not  quite  her  first,  however,  —  something  like  this  selfishness 
and  w^aywardness,  something  like  this  contrast  between  prac- 
tice and  poetry,  between  grand  versified  aspirations  and  every- 
day' life,  she  had  witnessed  at  home  in  the  person  of  our  young 
friend  Mr.  Pen. 

But  then  Pen  was  different.  Pen  was  a  man.  It  seemed 
natural,  somehow,  that  he  should  be  self-willed  and  should 
have  his  own  way.  And  under  his  waywardness  and  selfish- 
ness, indeed,  there  was  a  kind  and  generous  heart.  Oh,  it  was 
hard  that  such  a  diamond  should  be  changed  away  against 
such  a  false  stone  as  this.  In  a  word,  Laura  began  to  be  tired 
of  her  admired  Blanche.  She  had  assayed  her  and  found  her 
not  true  ;  and  her  former  admiration  and  delight,  which  she 
had  expressed  with  her  accustomed  generous  artlessness,  gave 
way  to  a  feeling,  which  we  shall  not  call  contempt,  but  which 
was  very  near  it ;  and  which  caused  Laura  to  adopt  towards 
Miss  Amory  a  grave  and  tranquil  tone  of  superiority,  which 
was  at  first  by  no  means  to  the  Muse's  liking.  Nobody  likes 
to  be  found  out,  or,  having  held  a  high  place,  to  submit  to  step 
down. 

The  consciousness  that  this  event  was  impending  did  not 
serve  to  increase  Miss  Blanche's  good-humor,  and  as  it  made 
her  peevish  and  dissatisfied  with  herself,  it  probablj^  rendered 
her  even  less  agreeable  to  the  persons  round  about  her.  So 
there  arose,  one  fatal  day,  a  battle-royal  between  dearest  Blanche 


PENDENNIS.  241 

and  dearest  Laura,  in  which  the  friendship  between  them  was  all 
but  slain  outright.  Dearest  Blanche  had  been  unusually  capri- 
cious and  wicked  on  this  day.  fShe  had  been  insolent  to  her 
mother ;  savage  with  little  Frank  ;  odioush'  impertinent  in  her 
behavior  to  the  bo3''s  governess  ;  and  intolerably  cruel  to  Pin- 
cott,  her  attendant.  Not  venturing  to  attack  her  friend  (for 
the  little  tN'rant  was  of  a  timid  feliue  nature,  and  only  used 
her  claws  upon  those  who  were  weaker  than  herself) ,  she  mal- 
treated all  these,  and  especial!}-  poor  Pincott,  who  was  menial, 
confidante,  companion  (slave  alwa3's),  according  to  the  caprice 
of  her  young  mistress. 

This  girl,  who  had  been  sitting  in  the  room  with  the  3'oung 
ladies,  being  driven  thence  in  tears,  occasioned  by  the  cruelty 
of  her  mistress,  and  raked  with  a  parting  sarcasm  as  she  went 
sobbing  from  the  door,  Laura  faii'ly  broke  out  into  a  loud  and 
indignant  invective  —  wondered  how  one  so  3'oung  could  forget 
the  deference  owing  to  her  elders  as  well  as  to  her  inferiors  in 
station  ;  and  professing  so  much  sensibilitj"  of  her  own,  could 
torture  the  feelings  of  others  so  wantonly.  Laura  told  her 
friend  that  her  conduct  was  absolutely  wicked,  and  that  she 
ought  to  ask  pardon  of  Heaven  on  her  knees  for  it.  And  hav- 
ing deUvered  herself  of  a  hot  and  voluble  speech  whereof  the 
delivery  astonished  the  speaker  as  much  almost  as  her  auditor, 
she  ran  to  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  and  went  home  across  the 
park  in  a  great  flurry-  and  perturbation,  and  to  the  surprise  of 
Mrs.  Pendennis,  who  had  not  expected  her  until  night. 

Alone  with  Helen,  Laura  gave  an  account  of  the  scene,  and 
gave  up  her  friend  henceforth.  "  O  Mamma,"  she  said,  "  ^'ou 
were  right ;  Blanche,  who  seems  so  soft  and  so  kind,  is,  as 
you  have  said,  selfish  and  cniel.  She  who  is  alwaj's  speak- 
ing of  her  afiections  can  have  no  heart.  No  honest  girl  would 
afflict  a  mother  so,  or  torture  a  dependant;  and  —  and,  I 
give  her  up  from  this  day,  and  I  will  have  no  other  friend  but 
you." 

On  this  the  two  ladies  went  through  the  osculatory  cere- 
mony which  they  were  in  the  habit  of  performing,  and  Mrs. 
Pendennis  got  a  great  secret  comfort  from  the  little  quarrel  — 
for  Laura's  confession  seemed  to  say,  "  That  girl  can  never  be 
a  wife  for  Pen,  for  she  is  light-minded  and  heartless,  and  quite 
unworthy  of  our  noble  hero.  He  will  be  sure  to  find  out  her 
unworthiness  for  his  own  part,  and  then  he  will  be  saved  from 
this  flighty  creature,  and  awake  out  of  his  delusion." 

But  Miss  Laura  did  not  tell  Mrs.  Pendennis,  perhaps  did 
not  acknowledge  to  herself,  what  had  been  the  real  cause  oi' 

16 


242  PENDENNIS. 

the  day's  quarrel.  Being  in  a  very  wicked  mood,  and  bent 
upon  mischief  everywhere,  tlie  little  wicked  Muse  of  a  Blanclie 
liad  very  soon  begun  her  tricks.  Her  darling  Laura  had  come 
to  pass  a  long  day ;  and  as  they  were  sitting  in  her  own  room 
together,  had  chosen  to  bring  the  conversation  round  to  the 
subject  of  Mr.  Pen. 

"  I  am  afraid  he  is  sadly  fickle,"  Miss  Blanche  observed. 
"Mrs.  Pybus,  and  many  more  Clavering  people,  have  told  us 
all  about  the  actress." 

"  I  was  quite  a  child  when  it  happened,  and  I  don't  know 
anything  about  it,"  Laura  answered,  blushing  very  much. 

"He  used  her  very  ill,"  Blanche  said,  wagging  her  little 
head.     "  He  was  false  to  her." 

"  I  am  sure  he  was  not,"  Laura  cried  out ;  "  he  acted  most 
generously  by  her :  he  wanted  to  give  up  everything  to  marry 
her.  It  was  she  that  was  false  to  him.  He  nearly  broke  his 
heart  about  it :  he  —  " 

"I  thought  you  didn't  know  anything  about  the  story, 
dearest,"  interposed  Miss  Blanche. 

"  Mamma  has  said  so,"  said  Laura. 

"Well,  he  is  very  clever,"  continued  the  other  little  dear. 
"  What  a  sweet  poet  he  is  !     Have  you  ever  read  his  poems  ?  " 

"  Only  the  '  Fisherman  and  the  Diver,'  which  he  translated 
for  us,  and  his  Prize  Poem,  which  didn't  get  the  pi-ize ;  and, 
indeed,  I  thought  it  very  pompous  and  prosy,"  Laura  said, 
laughing. 

"  Has  he  never  written  you  any  poems,  then,  love?"  asked 
Miss  Amory. 

"  No,  my  dear,"  said  Miss  Bell. 

Blanche  ran  up  to  her  friend,  kissed  her  fondly,  called  her 
my  dearest  Laura  at  least  three  times,  looked  her  archly  in  the 
face,  nodded  her  head,  and  said,  "  Promise  to  tell  no-o-bod3% 
and  I  will  show  you  something." 

And  tripping  across  the  room  daintily  to  a  little  mother-of- 
pearl  inlaid  desk,  she  opened  it  with  a  silver  key,  and  took  out 
two  or  three  papers  crumpled  and  rather  stained  with  green, 
which  she  submitted  to  her  friend.  Laura  took  them  and  read 
them.  They  were  love-verses  sure  enough  —  something  about 
Undine  —  about  a  Naiad  —  about  a  river.  She  looked  at  them 
for  a  long  time  ;  but  in  ti'uth  the  lines  were  not  very  distinct 
before  her  eyes. 

"And  you  have  answered  them,  Blanche?"  she  asked,  put- 
ting them  back. 

"  Oh  no  !  not  for  worlds,  dearest,"  the  other  said :  and  when 


PENDENNIS.  243 

her  dearest  Laui'a  had  quite  done  with  the  verses,  she  tripped 
back,  and  popped  them  again  into  the  pretty  desk. 

Then  she  went  to  her  piano,  and  sang  two  or  three  songs 
of  Rossini,  whose  flourishes  of  music  her  flexible  httle  voice 
could  execute  to  perfection,  and  Laura  sat  b}",  vaguely  listen- 
ing, as  she  performed  these  pieces.  What  was  Miss  Bell  think- 
ing about  the  while?  She  hardh*  knew;  but  sat  there  silent 
as  the  songs  rolled  by.  After  this  concert  the  young  ladies 
were  summoned  to  the  room  where  luncheon  was  served  ;  and 
whither  the}'  of  course  went  with  their  arms  round  each  other's 
waists. 

And  it  could  not  have  been  jealousy  or  anger  on  Laura's 
part  which  had  made  her  silent :  for,  after  they  had  tripped 
along  the  corridor  and  descended  the  steps,  and  were  about  to 
open  the  door  which  leads  into  the  hall,  Laura  paused,  and  look- 
ing her  friend  kindly  and  frankly  in  the  face,  kissed  her  with  a 
sisterly  warmth. 

Something  occurred  after  this  —  Master  Frank's  manner 
of  eating,  probabl}',  or  mamma's  blunders,  or  Sir  Francis  smell- 
ing of  cigars  —  which  vexed  Miss  Blanche,  and  she  gave  way  to 
that  series  of  naughtinesses  whereof  we  have  spoken,  and  which 
ended  in  the  above  little  quarrel. 


CHAPTER    XXV. 

A  HOUSE    FULL    OF    VISITORS. 

The  diflference  between  the  girls  did  not  last  long.  Laura 
was  always  too  eager  to  forgive  and  be  forgiven,  and  as  for 
Miss  Blanche,  her  hostilities,  never  very  long  or  durable,  had 
not  been  provoked  by  the  above  scene.  Nobody  cares  about 
being  accused  of  wickedness.  No  vanity  is  hurt  by  that  sort 
of  charge :  Blanche  was  rather  pleased  than  provoked  by  her 
friend's  indignation,  which  never  would  have  been  raised  but 
for  a  cause  which  both  knew,  though  neither  spoke  of. 

And  so  Laura,  with  a  sigh,  was  obliged  to  confess  that  the 
romantic  part  of  her  first  friendship  was  at  an  end,  and  that 
the  object  of  it  was  only  worthy  of  a  very  ordinary  sort  of  regard. 

As  for  Blanche,  she  instantly  composed  a  copy  of  touching 
verses  setting  forth  her  desertion  and  disenchantment.  It  was 
only  the  old  story  she  wrote,  of  love  meeting  with  coldness, 


244  PENDENNIS. 

and  fidelity  returned  b}^  neglect ;  and  some  new  neighbors  arrir- 
ing  from  London  about  this  time,  in  whose  family  there  were 
daughters,  Miss  Amor}'  had  tlie  advantage  of  selecting  an  eter- 
nal friend  from  one  of  these  young  ladies,  and  imparting  her 
soiTows  and  disappointments  to  this  new  sister.  The  tall  foot- 
men came  but  seldom  now  with  notes  to  the  sweet  Laura  ;  the 
pon^^  carriage  was  but  rarely  despatched  to  Fairoaks  to  be  at 
the  orders  of  the  ladies  there.  Blanche  adopted  a  sweet  look 
of  suffering  mart^Tdom  when  Laura  came  to  see  her.  The  other 
laughed  at  her  friend's  sentimental  mood,  and  treated  it  with  a 
good-humor  that  was  b}'  no  means  respectful. 

But  if  Miss  Blanche  found  new  female  friends  to  console 
her,  the  faithful  historian  is  also  bound  to  say,  that  she  discov- 
ered some  acquaintances  of  the  other  sex  who  seemed  to  give 
her  consolation  too.  If  ever  this  artless  young  creature  met 
a  young  man,  and  had  ten  minutes'  conversation  with  him  in  a 
garden  walk,  in  a  drawing-room  window,  or  in  the  intervals  of 
a  waltz,  she  confided  in  him,  so  to  speak  —  made  play  with 
her  beautiful  eyes  —  spoke  in  a  tone  of  tender  interest,  and 
simple  and  touching  appeal,  and  left  him,  to  perform  the  same 
pretty  little  drama  in  behalf  of  his  successor. 

When  the  Clavermgs  first  came  down  to  the  Park,  there 
were  very  few  audiences  before  whom  Miss  Blanche  could  per- 
form :  hence  Pen  had  all  the  benefits  of  her  glances,  and  confi- 
dences, and  the  drawing-room  window,  or  the  garden  walk  all 
to  himself.  In  the  town  of  Clavering,  it  has  been  said,  there 
were  actually  no  young  men  :  in  the  near  surrounding  country, 
only  a  curate  or  two,  or  a  rustic  young  squire,  with  large  feet 
and  ill-made  clothes.  To  the  dragoons  quartered  at  Chatteris 
the  Baronet  made  no  overtures  :  it  was  unluckil}-  his  own  regi- 
ment :  he  had  left  it  on  bad  terms  with  some  officers  of  the 
corps  —  an  ugly  business  about  a  horse  bargain  —  a  disputed 
play  account  at  blind-Hookey  —  a  white  feather  —  who  need 
ask  ?  —  it  is  not  our  business  to  inquire  too  closely  into  the  by- 
gones of  our  characters,  except  in  so  far  as  their  previous  his- 
tory appertains  to  the  development  of  this  present  story. 

The  autumn,  and  the  end  of  the  Parliamentar}^  Session,  and 
the  London  season,  brought  one  or  two  county  families  down 
to  their  houses,  and  filled  tolerably  the  neighboring  little  water- 
ing-place of  Baymouth,  and  opened  our  friend  Mr.  Bingley's 
Theatre  Royal  at  Chatteris,  and  collected  the  usual  company 
at  the  Assizes  and  Race-balls  there.  Up  to  this  time,  the  old 
county  families  had  been  rather  sh}'  of  our  friends  of  Clavering 
Park.     The  Fogeys  of  Drummington  ;  the  Squares  of  Dozley 


PENDENNIS.  245 

Park  '•,  the  Welbores  of  The  BaiTow,  &c.  All  sorts  of  stories 
were  current  among  these  folks  regarding  the  famil}'  ut  Claver- 
ing;  — indeed,  nobod}'  ought  to  say  that  people  in  the  country 
have  no  imagination,  who  liear  them  talk  about  new  neighbors. 
About  Sir  Francis  and  his  Lad}',  and  her  birth  and  parentage, 
about  Miss  Amor}',  about  Captain  Strong,  there  had  been  end- 
less histories  which  need  not  be  recapitulated  ;  and  the  famil}' 
of  the  Park  had  been  three  months  in  the  county  before  the 
great  psople  around  began  to  call. 

But  at  the  end  of  the  season,  the  Earl  of  Trehawk,  Lord 
Lieutenant  of  the  County,  coming  to  Eyrie  Castle,  and  the 
Countesk?  Dowager  of  Rockminster,  whose  son  was  also  a  mag- 
nate of  the  land,  to  occup}'  a  mansion  on  the  INIarine  Parade  at 
BaA'mouth  —  these  great  folks  came  publicly,  immediately,  and 
in  state,  to  call  upon  the  famih'  of  Clavering  Park ;  and  the 
carriages  of  the  county  families  speedily  followed  in  the  track, 
which  had  been  left  in  the  avenue  b\'  their  lordl}'  wheels. 

It  was  then  that  Mirobolant  began  to  have  an  opportunity  of 
exercising  that  skill  which  he  possessed,  and  of  forgetting,  in 
the  occupations  of  his  art,  the  pangs  of  love.  It  was  then  that 
the  large  footmen  were  too  much  employed  at  Clavering  Park  to 
be  able  to  bring  messages,  or  dally  over  the  cup  of  small  beer 
with  thv.^  poor  little  maids  at  Fairoaks.  It  was  then  that  Blanche 
found  other  dear  friends  than  Laura,  and  other  places  to  walk 
in  besides  the  river  side,  where  Pen  was  fishing.  He  came 
day  after  day,  and  whipped  the  stream,  but  the  "'  fish,  fish!" 
wouldn't  do  their  dut}',  nor  the  Peri  appear.  And  here,  though 
in  strict  confidence,  and  with  a  request  that  the  matter  go  no 
further,  we  ma}-  as  well  allude  to  a  delicate  business,  of  which 
previous  hint  has  been  given.  Mention  has  been  made,  in  a 
former  page,  of  a  certain  hollow  tree,  at  which  Pen  used  to  take 
his  station  when  engaged  in  his  passion  for  Miss  Fotheringay, 
and  the  cavity  of  which  he  afterwards  used  for  other  purposes 
than  to  insert  his  baits  and  fishing-cans  in.  The  truth  is,  he 
converted  this  tree  into  a  post-office.  Under  a  piece  of  moss 
and  a  stone,  he  used  to  put  little  poems,  or  letters  equally 
poetical,  which  were  addressed  to  a  certain  Undine,  or  Naiad 
who  frequented  the  stream,  and  which,  once  or  twice,  were 
replaced  b\-  a  receipt  in  the  shape  of  a  flower,  or  by  a  modest 
little  word  or  two  of  acknowledgment,  written  in  a  delicate 
hand,  in  French  or  English,  and  on  pink  scented  paper.  Cer- 
tainly, Miss  Amory  used  to  walk  by  tliis  stream,  as  we  have 
seen ';  and  it  is  a  fact  that  she  used  pink  scented  paper  for  her 
correspondence.     But  after  the  great  folks  had  invaded  Claver- 


246  PENDENNIS. 

ing  Park,  and  the  famil}'  coach  passed  out  of  the  lodge-gates, 
evening  after  evening,  on  their  way  to  the  other  great  country 
houses,  nobody  came  to  fetch  Pen's  letters  at  the  post-office  ; 
the  white  paper  was  not  exchanged  for  the  pink,  but  lay  undis- 
turbed under  its  stone  and  its  moss,  whilst  the  tree  was  reflected 
into  tlie  stream,  and  the  Brawl  went  rolling  by.  There  was 
not  much  in  the  letters  certainly  :  in  the  pink  notes  scarcely 
anything  —  merely  a  little  word  or  two,  half  jocular,  half  sym- 
pathetic, such  as  might  be  written  by  any  young  lady.  But, 
oh,  you  silly  Pendennis,  if  you  wanted  this  one,  why  did  you 
not  speak  ?  Perhaps  neither  party  was  in  earnest.  You  were 
only  playing  at  being  in  love,  and  the  sportive  little  Undine  was 
humoring  you  at  the  same  pla}'. 

Nevertheless  if  a  man  is  balked  at  this  game,  he  not  un- 
frequently  loses  his  temper ;  and  when  nobody  came  any  more 
for  Pen's  poems,  he  began  to  look  upon  those  compositions  in 
a  very  serious  light.  He  felt  almost  tragical  and  romantic 
again,  as  in  his  first  affair  of  the  heart :  —  at  an}'  rate  he  was 
bent  upon  having  an  explanation.  One  day  he  went  to  the 
Hall,  and  there  was  a  room-full  of  visitors  :  on  another,  Miss 
Amory  was  not  to  be  seen  ;  she  was  going  to  a  ball  that  night, 
and  was  lying  down  to  take  a  little  sleep.  Pen  cursed  balls, 
and  the  narrowness  of  his  means,  and  the  humility  of  his  posi- 
tion in  the  county  that  caused  him  to  be  passed  over  by  the 
givers  of  these  entertainments.  On  a  third  occasion.  Miss 
Amor}'  was  in  the  garden,  and  he  ran  thither ;  she  was  walking 
there  in  state  with  no  less  personages  than  the  Bishop  and 
Bishopess  of  Chatteris  and  the  episcopal  family,  who  scowled 
at  him,  and  drew  up  in  great  dignity  when  he  was  presented  to 
them,  and  they  heard  his  name.  The  Right  Reverend  Prelate 
had  heard  it  before,  and  also  of  the  little  transaction  in  the 
Dean's  garden. 

"  The  Bishop  says  you're  a  sad  3'oung  man,"  good-natured 
Lady  Clavering  whispered  to  him.  "What  have  30U  been  a 
doing  of?  Nothink,  I  hope,  to  vex  such  a  dear  Mar  as  j-ours  ? 
How  is  \-our  dear  Mar?  Why  don't  she  come  and  see  me? 
We  an't  seen  her  this  ever  such  a  time.  We're  a  goin  about  a 
gaddin,  so  that  we  don't  see  no  neighbors  now.  Give  ni}-  love 
to  her  and  Laurar,  and  come  all  to  dinner  to-morrow." 

Mrs.  Pendennis  was  too  unwell  to  come  out,  but  Laura  and 
Pen  came,  and  there  was  a  gi-eat  party,  and  Pen  onl}'  got  an 
opportunity  of  a  hurried  word  with  Miss  Amory.  "  You 
never  come  to  the  river  now,"  he  said. 

"  I  can't,"  said  Blanche,  "  the  house  is  full  of  people." 


PENDENNIS.  247 

"Undine  has  left  the  stream,"  Mr.  Pen  went  on,  chodsing 
to  be  poetical. 

"  She  never  ought  to  have  gone  there,"  Miss  Amory  an- 
swered. '•  She  won't  go  again.  It  was  verj'  foolish,  very 
wrong  :  it  was  only  pla}-.  Besides,  you  have  other  consolations 
at  home,"  she  added,  looking  him  full  in  the  face  an  instant, 
and  dropping  her  e^'es. 

If  he  wanted  her,  whj'  did  he  not  speak  then  ?  She  might 
have  said  "Yes"  even  then.  But  as  she  spoke  of  other  con- 
solations at  home,  he  thought  of  Laura,  so  affectionate  and  so 
pure,  and  of  his  mother  at  home,  who  had  bent  her  fond  heart 
upon  uniting  him  with  her  adopted  daughter.  "  Blanche  !  "  he 
began,  in  a  vexed  tone,  —  ''  Miss  Amory  !  " 

"  Laura  is  looking  at  us,  Mr.  Pendennis,"  the  3'oung  lady 
said.  '•  I  must  go  back  to  the  company,"  and  she  ran  off,  leav- 
ing Mr.  Pendennis  to  bite  his  nails  in  perplexity,  and  to  look 
out  into  the  moonhght  in  the  garden. 

Laura  indeed  was  looking  at  Pen.  She  was  talking  with, 
or  appearing  to  listen  to  the  talk  of,  Mr.  Pynsent,  Lord  Rock- 
minster's  son,  and  gi'andson  of  the  Dowager  Lady,  who  was 
seated  in  state  in  the  place  of  honor,  gravel}'  receiving  Lady 
Clavering's  bad  grammar,  and  pati'onizing  the  vacuous  Sir  Fran- 
cis, whose  interest  in  the  county  she  was  desirous  to  secure. 
Pynsent  and  Pen  had  been  at  Oxbridge  together,  where  the 
latter,  during  his  heyda}"  of  good  fortune  and  fashion,  had  been 
the  superior  of  the  young  patrician,  and  perhaps  rather  super- 
cilious towards  him.  The}'  had  met  for  the  first  time,  since 
they  had  parted  at  the  Universit}'  at  the  table  to-daj',  and  given 
each  other  that  exceedingl}"  impertinent  and  amusing  demi-nod 
of  recognition  which  is  practised  in  England  onl}',  and  onl}-  to 
perfection  b\-  University  men,  —  and  which  seems  to  say,  '*  Con- 
found 3'ou  —  what  do  j'ou  do  here  ?  " 

"I  knew  that  man  at  Oxbridge,"  Mr.  Pynsent  said  to  Miss 
Bell —  "  a  Mr.  Pendennis,  I  think." 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Bell  — 

"  He  seems  rather  sweet  upon  Miss  Amor}',"  the  gentleman 
went  on.  Laura  looked  at  them,  and  perhaps  thought  so  too, 
but  said  nothing. 

' '  A  man  of  large  property  in  the  county,  ain't  he  ?  He  used 
to  talk  about  representing  it.  He  used  to  speak  at  the  Union. 
Whereabouts  do  his  estates  lie  ?  " 

Laura  smiled.  "His  estates  lie  on  the  other  side  of  the 
river,  near  the  lodge-gate.     He  is  my  cousin,  and  I  live  there." 

"Where?"  asked  Mr.  Pynsent,  with  a  laugh. 


248  PENDENNIS. 

"  Why,  on  the  other  side  of  the  river,  at  Fairoaks,"  answered 
Miss  Bell. 

"Many  pheasants  there?  Cover  looks  rather  good,"  said 
the  simple  gentleman. 

Laura  smiled  again.  "We  have  nine  hens  and  a  cock,  a 
pig,  and  an  old  pointer." 

"Pendennis  don't  preserve,  then?"  continued  Mr.  Pynsent. 

"  You  should  come  and  see  him,"  the  girl  said,  laughing, 
and  greatly  amused  at  the  notion  that  her  Pen  was  a  great 
county  gentleman,  and  perhaps  had  given  himself  out  to  be 
such. 

"  Indeed,  I  quite  long  to  renew  our  acquaintance,"  Mr. 
Pynsent  said,  gallantly,  and  with  a  look  which  fairly  said,  "  It 
is  you  that  I  would  lilce  to  come  and  see  "  —  to  which  look  and 
speech  Miss  Laura  vouchsafed  a  smile,  and  made  a  little  bow. 

Here  Blanche  came  stepping  up  with  her  most  fascinating 
smile  and  ogle,  and  begged  dear  Laura  to  come  and  take  the 
second  in  a  song.  Laura  was  ready  to  do  anytliing  good- 
natured,  and  went  to  the  piano  ;  Ijy  which  Mr.  Pynsent  listened 
as  long  as  the  duet  lasted,  and  until  Miss  Amory  began  for 
herself,  when  he  strode  away. 

"  What  a  nice,  frank,  amiable,  well-bred  girl  that  is,  Wagg," 
said  Mr.  P3-nsent  to  a  gentleman  who  had  come  over  with  him 
from  Baj'mouth —  "  the  tall  one  I  mean,  with  the  ringlets  and 
the  red  lips  —  monstrous  red,  ain't  they?" 

"  What  do  you  think  of  the  girl  of  the  house?"  asked  Mr. 
Wagg. 

"  I  think  she's  a  lean,  scraggy  humbug ;  "  said  Mr.  Pynsent, 
with  great  candor.  ' '  She  drags  her  shoulders  out  of  her  dress  : 
she  never  lets  her  eyes  alone  :  and  she  goes  simpering  and 
oghng  about  like  a  French  waiting-maid." 

"  Pynsent,  be  civil,"  cried  the  other,  "  somebod}'  can  hear." 

"  Oh,  it's  Pendennis  of  Boniface,"  Mr.  P3'nsent  said.  "  Fine 
evening,  Mr.  Pendennis  ;  we  were  just  talking  of  jour  charming 
cousin." 

"  Any  relation  to  my  old  friend.  Major  Pendennis?"  asked 
Mr.  Wagg. 

"  His  nephew.  Had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  you  at  Gaunt 
House,"  Mr.  Pen  said  with  his  verj'best  air  —  the  acquaintance 
between  the  gentlemen  was  made  in  an  instant. 

In  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day,  the  two  gentlemen  who 
were  staying  at  Clavering  Park  were  found  by  Mr.  Pen  on  his 
return  from  a  fishing  excursion,  in  which  he  had  no  sport, 


PENDENNIS.  249 

seated  in  his  mother's  drawing-room  in  comfortable  conversa- 
tion with  the  widow  and  her  ward.  Mr.  Pynsent,  tall  and 
gaunt,  with  large  red  whiskers  and  an  imposing  tuft  to  his  chin, 
was  striding  over  a  chair  in  the  intimate  neighborhood  of  Miss 
Laura.  She  was  amused  by  his  tallc,  which  was  simple,  straight- 
forward, rather  humorous,  and  keen,  and  interspersed  with 
homely  expressions  of  a  style  which  is  sometimes  called  slang. 
It  was  the  first  specimen  of  a  young  London  dandy  that  Laura 
had  seen  or  heard  ;  for  she  had  been  but  a  chit  at  the  time  of 
Mr.  Foker's  introduction  at  Fairoaks,  nor  indeed  was  that  in- 
genuous gentleman  much  more  than  a  boy,  and  his  refinement 
was  only  that  of  a  school  and  college. 

Mr.  Wagg,  as  he  entered  the  Fairoaks  premises  with  his 
companion,  eyed  and  noted  ever^-thing.  "Old  gardener,"  he 
said,  seeing  Mr.  John  at  the  lodge  —  '•  old  red  livery  waistcoat 
—  clothes  hanging  out  to  dry  on  the  gooseberry  bushes  —  blue 
aprons,  white  ducks  —  gad,  they  must  be  young  Pendennis's 
white  ducks  —  nobody  else  wears  'em  in  the  family-.  Rather  a 
shy  place  for  a  sucking  county  member,  ay,  Pynsent?" 

"  Snug  little  crib,"  said  Mr.  Pynsent,  *'  prett}' coz}- little  lawn." 

"Mr.  Pendennis  at  home,  old  gentleman?"  Mr.  Wagg  said 
to  the  old  domestic.  John  answered,  "  No,  Master  Pendennis 
was  agone  out." 

"  Are  the  ladies  at  home?"  asked  the  younger  visitor.  Mr. 
John  answered,  "  Yes,  they  be  ;  "  and  as  the  pair  v/alked  over 
the  trim  gravel,  and  b}'  the  neat  shrubbeiies,  up  the  steps  to 
the  hall-door,  which  old  John  opened,  Mr.  Wagg  noted  every- 
thing that  he  saw  ;  the  barometer  and  the  letter-bag,  the  um- 
brellas and  the  ladies'  clogs.  Pen's  hats  and  tartan  wrapper,  and 
old  John  opening  the  drawing-room  door,  to  introduce  the  new 
comers.  Such  minutiae  attracted  Wagg  instinctively  ;  he  seized 
tiiem  in  spite  of  himself. 

"Old  fellow  does  all  the  work,"  he  whispered  to  Pynsent. 
"  Caleb  Balderstone.  Shouldn't  wonder  if  he's  the  housemaid." 
The  next  minute  the  pair  were  in  the  presence  of  the  Fairoaks 
ladies  ;  in  whom  Pynsent  could  not  help  recognizing  two  per- 
fectl}'  well-bred  ladies,  and  to  whom  Mr.  Wagg  made  his  obei- 
sance, with  florid  bows,  and  extra  courtesy,  accompanied  with 
an  occasional  knowing  leer  at  his  companion.  Mr.  Pynsent 
did  not  choose  to  acknowledge  these  signals,  except  by  extreme 
haughtiness  towards  Mr.  Wagg.  and  particular  deference  to  the 
ladies.  If  there  was  one  thing  laughable  in  Mr.  Wagg's  eyes, 
it  was  poverty.  lie  had  the'  soul  of  a  butler  who  had  been 
brought  from  his  pantr}'  to  make   fun  in   the  drawing-room. 


250  PENDENNIS. 

His  jokes  wei'e  plenty,  and  his  good-nature  thoroughl}-  genuine, 
but  he  did  not  seem  to  understand  that  a  gentleman  could  wear 
an  old  coat,  or  that  a  lady  could  be  respectable  unless  she  had 
her  carriage,  or  emplo3'ed  a  French  milliner. 

"■Charming  place,  ma'am,"  said  he,  bowing  to  the  widow; 
"noble  prospect  —  delightful  to  us  Cockneys,  who  seldom  see 
anything  but  Pall  Mall."  The  widow  said,  simpl}-,  she  had 
never  been  in  London  but  once  in  her  life  —  before  her  son 
was  born. 

"Fine  village,  ma'am,  fine  village,"  said  Mr.  Wagg,  "and 
increasing  every  day.  It'll  be  quite  a  large  town  soon.  It's 
not  a  bad  place  to  live  in  for  those  who  can't  get  the  country, 
and  will  repay  a  visit  when  you  honor  it." 

"My  brother.  Major  Pendennis,  has  often  mentioned  your 
name  to  us,"  the  widow  said,  "  and  we  have  been  —  amused  by 
some  of  30ur  droll  books,  sir,"  Helen  continued,  who  never 
could  be  brought  to  like  Mr.  Wagg's  books,  and  detested  their 
tone  most  thoroughly. 

"  He  is  mj'  very  good  friend,"  Mr.  Wagg  said,  with  a  low 
bow,  "  and  one  of  the  best  known  men  about  town,  and  where 
known,  ma'am,  appreciated  —  I  assure  3'ou  appreciated.  He 
is  with  our  friend  8te3'ne,  at  Aix-la-Chapelle.  Steyne  has  a 
touch  of  the  gout,  and  so,  between  ourselves,  has  3'our  brother. 
I  am  going  to  fStillbrook  for  the  pheasant-shooting,  and  after- 
wards to  Bareacres,  where  Pendennis  and  I  shall  probably 
meet ;  "  and  he  poured  out  a  flood  of  fashionable  talk,  introdu- 
cing the  names  of  a  score  of  peers,  and  rattling  on  with  breath- 
less spirits,  whilst  the  simple  widow  listened  in  silent  wonder. 
What  a  man,  she  thought ;  are  all  the  men  of  fashion  in  Lon- 
don like  this?     I  am  sure  Pen  will  never  be  like  him. 

Mr.  Pynsent  was  in  the  meanwhile  engaged  with  Miss  Laura. 
He  named  some  of  the  houses  in  the  neighborhood  whither  he 
was  going,  and  hoped  very  much  that  he  should  see  Miss  Bell 
5at  some  of  them.  He  hoped  that  her  aunt  would  give  her  a 
season  in  London.  He  said,  that  in  the  next  parliament  it  was 
probable  he  should  canvass  the  county,  and  he  hoped  to  get 
Pendennis's  interest  here.  He  spoke  of  Pen's  triumph  as  an 
orator  at  Oxbridge,  and  asked  was  he  coming  into  parliament 
too?  He  talked  on  very  pleasantly,  and  greatly  to  Laura's 
satisfaction,  until  Pen  himself  appeared,  and  as  has  been  said, 
found  these  gentlemen. 

Pen  behaved  very  courteously  to  the  pair,  now  that  they 
had  found  their  way  into  his  quarters  ;  and  though  he  recollected 
with  some  twinges  a  conversation  at  Oxbridge,  when  Pynseni^ 


PENDENNIS.  251 

was  present,  and  in  which,  after  a  great  debate  at  the  Union, 
and  in  the  midst  of  considerable  excitement,  produced  by  a 
supper  and  champagne-cup,  —  he  had  announced  his  intention 
of  coming  in  for  his  native  count}',  and  liad  absohiteh-  returned 
thanks  in  a  fine  speech  as  the  future  member  ;  yet  Mr.  Pynsent's 
manner  was  so  frank  and  cordial,  that  Pen  hoped  iP\-nsent 
might  have  forgotten  his  little  fanfaronnade,  and  any  other 
braggadocio  speeches  or  actions  which  he  might  have  made. 
He  suited  himself  to  the  tone  of  the  visitors  then,  and  talked 
about  Plinlimmon  and  Magnus  Charters,  and  the  old  set  at 
Oxbridge,  with  careless  familiarity  and  high-bred  ease,  as  if  he 
lived  with  marquises  every  day,  and  a  duke  was  no  more  to 
him  than  a  village  curate. 

But  at  this  juncture,  and  it  being  then  six  o'clock  in  the 
evening,  Betsy,  the  maid,  who  did  not  know  of  the  advent  of 
strangers,  walked  into  the  room  without  an}-  preliminary  but 
that  of  flinging  the  door  wide  open  before  her,  and  bearing  in 
her  arms  a  tra}',  containing  three  tea-cups,  a  tea-pot,  and  a 
plate  of  thick  bread-and-butter.  All  Pen's  splendor  and  mag- 
nificence vanished  away  at  this  —  and  he  faltered  and  became 
quite  abashed.  "  AVhat  will  they  think  of  us?"  he  thought: 
and,  indeed,  Wagg  thrust  his  tongue  in  his  cheek,  thought  the 
tea  utterl}'  contemptible,  and  leered  and  winked  at  Pynsent  to 
that  etiect. 

But  to  Mr.  Pynsent  the  transaction  appeared  perfectly  simple 
—  there  was  no  reason  present  to  his  mind  wh}-  people  should 
not  drink  tea  at  six  if  they  were  minded,  as  well  as  at  any  other 
hour ;  and  he  asked  of  Mr.  Wagg,  when  they  went  away. 
"What  the  devil  he  was  grinning  and  winking  at,  and  what 
amused  him?" 

"Didn't  you  see  how  the  cub  was  ashamed  of  the  thick 
bread-and-butter?  I  dare  saj'  they're  going  to  have  treacle 
if  the}'  are  good.  I'll  take  an  opportunity  of  telling  old 
Pendennis  when  we  get  back  to  town,"  Mr.  Wagg  chuckled 
out. 

"  Don't  see  the  fun,"  said  Mr.  Pynsent. 

"  Never  thought  3'ou  did,"  growled  Wagg  between  his  teeth  ; 
and  they  walked  home  rather  sulkih'. 

Wagg  told  the  storA'  at  dinner  very  smartly,  with  wonderful 
accuracy  of  observation.  He  described  old  John,  the  clothes 
that  were  drying,  the  clogs  in  the  hall,  the  drawing-room,  and 
its  furniture  and  pictures:  "Old  man  with  a  beak  and  bald 
head  — feii  Pendennis  I  l)et  two  to  one  ;  sticknig-plaster  full- 
length  of  a  jouth  in  a  cap  and  gown  —  the  present  Marquis  of 


252  PENDENNIS. 

Fairoaks,  of  course  ;  the  widow  wheu  young  in  a  miniature, 
Mrs.  Mee  ;  slie  had  the  gown  on  when  we  came,  or  a  dress 
made  the  year  after,  and  the  tips  cut  off  the  fingers  of  her 
gloves  which  she  stitches  her  sou's  collars  with ;  and  then  the 
sarving  maid  came  in  with  their  teas  ;  so  we  left  the  Earl  and 
the  Countess  to  their  bread-and-butter." 

Blanche,  near  whom  he  sat  as  he  told  this  stor}',  and  who 
adored  les  homines  d'esprit,  burst  out  laughing,  and  called  him 
such  an  odd,  droll  creature.  But  P^-nsent,  who  began  to  be 
utterh-  disgusted  with  him,  broke  out  in  a  loud  voice,  and  said, 
"■  I  don't  know,  Mr.  Wagg,  what  sort  of  ladies  3'ou  are  accus- 
tomed to  meet  in  3'our  own  famil}',  but  by  gad,  as  far  as  a  first 
acquaintance  can  show,  I  never  met  two  better-bred  women  in 
m^'  life,  and  I  hope,  ma'am,  you'll  call  upon  'em,"  he  added, 
addressing  Lad3'  Rockminster,  who  was  seated  at  Sir  Francis 
Clavering's  right  hand. 

Sir  Francis  turned  to  the  guest  on  his  left,  and  whispei'ed, 
"  That's  what  I  call  a  sticker  for  Wagg."  And  Lady  Claver- 
ing,  giving  the  .young  gentleman  a  delighted  tap  with  her  fan, 
winked  her  black  eyes  at  him,  and  said,  "  Mr.  Pynsent,  you're 
a  good  feller." 

After  the  affair  with  Blanche,  a  difference  ever  so  slight,  a 
tone  of  melancholy,  perhaps  a  little  bitter,  might  be  perceived 
in  Laura's  converse  with  lier  cousin.  She  seemed  to  weigh 
him,  and  find  him  wanting  too ;  the  widow  saw  the  girl's  clear 
and  honest  eyes  watching  the  3'oung  man  at  times,  and  a  look 
of  almost  scorn  pass  over  her  face,  as  he  lounged  in  the  room 
with  the  women,  or  lazil3'  sauntered  smoking  upon  the  lawn, 
or  lolled  under  a  tree  there  over  a  book,  which  he  was  too  list- 
less to  read. 

"What  has  happened  between  you?"  eager-sighted  Helen 
asked  of  the  girl.  "  Something  has  happened.  Has  that 
wicked  little  Blanche  been  making  mischief?     Tell  me,  Laura." 

"  Nothing  has  happened  at  all,"  Laura  said. 

"Then  why  do  3'ou  look  at  Pen  so?"  asked  his  mother 
quickl3^ 

"Look  at  him,  dear  mother!"  said  the  girl.  "We  two 
women  are  no  society  for  him  :  we  don't  interest  him  ;  we  are 
not  clever  enough  for  such  a  genius  as  Pen.  He  wastes  his  life 
and  energies  away  among  us,  tied  to  our  apron-strings.  He 
interests  himself  in  nothing :  he  scarcely  cares  to  go  beyond 
the  garden-gate.  Even  Captain  Glanders  and  Captain  Strong 
pall  upon  him,"  she  added  with  a  bitter  laugh  ;  "  and  they  are 
men  you  know,  and  our  superiors.     He  will  never  be  happj' 


PENDENNIS.  253 

while  he  is  here.  Wh}'  is  he  not  facing  the  world,  and  without 
a  profession  ?  " 

"  We  have  got  enough,  with  great  econom}',"  said  the  widow, 
her  heart  beginning  to  beat  violenth'.  "  Pen  has  spent  nothing 
for  months.  I'm  sure  he  is  very  good.  1  am  sure  he  might  be 
ver}'  happ3'  with  us." 

*'  Don't  agitate  yourself  so,  dear  mother,"  the  girl  answered. 
"  I  don't  like  to  see  you  so.  You  should  not  be  sad  because 
Pen  is  unhappy  here.  All  men  are  so.  They  must  work. 
They  must  make  themselves  names  and  a  place  in  the  world. 
Look,  the  two  captains  have  fought  and  seen  battles  :  that  Mr. 
Pynsent,  who  came  here,  and  who  will  be  ver}'  rich,  is  in  a 
public  office  ;  he  works  very  hard,  he  aspires  to  a  name  and 
a  reputation.  He  says  Pen  was  one  of  the  best  speakers  at 
Oxbridge,  and  had  as  great  a  character  for  talent  as  any  of  the 
young  gentlemen  there.  Pen  himself  laughs  at  Mr.  Wagg's 
celebrity  (and  indeed  he  is  a  horrid  person),  and  says  he  is  a 
dunce,  and  that  anybodj^  could  write  his  books." 

"  I  am  sure  they  are  odious,"  interposed  the  widow. 

"  Yet  he  has  a  reputation.  — You  see  the  County  Chronicle 
says,  '  The  celebrated  Mr.  Wagg  has  been  sojourning  at  Bay- 
mouth  —  let  our  fashionables  and  eccentrics  look  out  for  some- 
thing from  his  caustic  pen.'  If  Pen  can  write  better  than  this 
gentleman,  and  speak  better  than  Mr.  Pynsent,  why  doesn't 
he  ?  Mamma,  he  can't  make  speeches  to  us  ;  or  distinguish 
himself  here.     He  ought  to  go  away,  indeed  he  ought." 

"Dear  Laura,"  said  Helen,  taking  the  girl's  hand.  "  Is  it 
kind  of  3-ou  to  hurry  him  so?  I  have  been  waiting.  I  have 
been  saving  up  money  these  many  months  —  to  —  to  pay  back 
your  advance  to  us." 

"  Hush,  mother  !  "  Laura  cried,  embracing  her  friend  hastih'. 
"  It  w^as  your  money,  not  mine.  Never  speak  about  that  again. 
How  much  money  have  3'ou  saved  ?  " 

Helen  said  there  were  more  than  two  hundred  pounds  at  the 
bank,  and  that  she  would  be  enabled  to  pay  oif  all  Laura's 
money  by  the  end  of  the  next  year. 

"Give  it  him — let  him  have  the  two  hundred  pounds. 
Let  him  go  to  London  and  he  a  lawyer :  be  something,  be 
worthy  of  his  mother  —  and  of  mine,  dearest  mamma,"  said  the 
good  girl ;  upon  which,  and  with  her  usual  tenderness  and  emo- 
tion, the  fond  widow  declared  that  Laura  was  a  blessing  to  her, 
and  the  best  of  girls  —  and  I  hope  no  one  in  this  instance  will 
be  disposed  to  contradict  her. 

The  widow  and  her  daughter  had  more  than  one  conversa- 


254  PENDENNIS. 

tion  on  this  subject :  the  elder  gave  way  to  the  superior  reason 
of  tiie  honest  and  stronger  minded  girl ;  and,  indeed,  vv'henever 
there  was  a  sacrifice  to  be  made  on  her  part,  this  liind  kidy  was 
only  too  eager  to  make  it.  But  she  took  her  own  wa}',  and  did 
not  lose  sight  of  the  end  she  had  in  view,  in  imparting  these 
new  plans  to  Pen.  One  day  she  told  him  of  these  projects, 
and  who  it  was  that  had  formed  them  ;  how  it  was  Laura  who 
insisted  upon  his  going  to  London  and  studying ;  how  it  was 
Laura  who  would  not  hear  of  the  —  the  mone}-  arrangements 
when  he  came  back  from  Oxbridge  —  being  settled  just  then  : 
how  it  was  Laura  whom  he  had  to  thank,  if  indeed  he  thought 
he  ought  to  go. 

At  that  news  Pen's  countenance  blazed  up  with  pleasure, 
and  he  hugged  his  mother  to  his  heart  with  an  ardor  that  I  fear 
disappointed  the  fond  lady  ;  but  she  rallied  when  he  said,  "  By 
Heaven  !  she  is  a  noble  girl,  and  may  God  Almighty  bless  her ! 
O  mother  !  I  have  been  wearying  myself  away  for  months  here, 
longing  to  work,  and  not  knowing  how.  I've  been  fretting 
over  the  thoughts  of  my  shame,  and  m}'  debts,  and  my  past 
cursed  extravagance  and  follies.  I've  suffered  infernally.  My 
heart  has  been  half-broken  —  never  mind  about  that.  If  I  can 
get  a  chance  to  redeem  the  past,  and  to  do  my  duty  to  myself 
and  the  best  mother  in  the  world,  indeed,  indeed,  I  will.  I'll 
be  worthy  of  you  yet.  Heaven  bless  you !  God  bless  Laura ! 
Why  isn't  she  here,  that  I  ma}'  go  and  thank  her?  "  Pen  went 
on  with  more  incoherent  phrases  ;  paced  up  and  down  the  room, 
drank  glasses  of  water,  jumped  about  his  mother  with  a  thou- 
sand embraces  —  began  to  laugh  —  began  to  sing  —  was  happier 
than  she  had  seen  him  since  he  was  a  bo}^  — since  he  had  tasted 
of  the  fruit  of  that  awful  Tree  of  Life  which,  from  the  begin- 
ning, has  tempted  all  mankind. 

Laura  was  not  at  home.  Laura  was  on  a  visit  to  the  stately 
Lady  Rockminster,  daughter  to  my  Lord  Bareacres,  sister  to 
the  late  Lady  Pontypool,  and  by  consequence  a  distant  kins- 
woman of  Helen's,  as  her  ladyship,  who  was  deeply  versed  in 
genealogy,  was  the  first  graciously  to  jioint  out  to  the  modest 
country  lad}'.  Mr.  Pen  was  greatly  delighted  at  the  relation- 
ship being  acknowledged,  though  perhai)3  not  over  well  pleased 
that  Lady  Rockminster  took  Miss  Bell  home  with  her  for  a 
couple  of  da3's  to  Bay  mouth,  and  did  not  make  the  slightest 
invitation  to  Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis.  There  was  to  be  a  ball 
at  Baymouth,  and  it  was  to  bo  Miss  Laura's  fii'st  appearance. 
The  dowager  came  to  fetch  her  in  her  carriage,  and  she  went 


PENDENNIS.  255 

off  with  a  white  dress  in  her  box,  happy  and  blusiiing,  like  the 
rose  to  whicli  Pen  compared  her. 

This  was  the  night  of  the  ball  —  a  public  entertainment  at 
the  Bajmouth  Hotel.  '•  B}-  JoA-e  !  "  said  Pen,  "  I'll  ride  over 
—  No,  I  won't  ride,  but  I'll  go  too."  His  mother  was  charmed 
that  he  should  do  so ;  and,  as  he  was  debating  about  the  con- 
veyance in  which  he  should  start  for  Baymouth,  Captain  Strong 
called  opportunely,  said  he  was  going  himself,  and  that  he 
would  put  his  horse.  The  Butcher  Boy,  into  the  gig,  and  drive 
Pen  over. 

When  the  grand  company  began  to  till  the  house  at  Claver- 
ing  Park,  the  Chevalier  Strong  seldom  intruded  himself  upon 
its  society,  but  went  elsewhere  to  seek  his  relaxation.  "I've 
seen  plenty  of  grand  dinners  in  m}'  time,"  he  said,  "  and  dined, 
b^-  Jove,  in  a  compau}'  where  there  was  a  king  and  royal  duke 
at  top  and  bottom,  and  every  man  along  the  table  had  six 
stars  on  his  coat:  but  damni}'.  Glanders,  this  finery-  don't  suit 
me ;  and  the  English  ladies  with  their  confounded  buckram 
airs,  and  the  squires  with  their  politics  after  dinner,  send  me 
to  sleep  —  sink  me  dead  if  the}'  don't.  I  like  a  place  where  I 
can  blow  my  cigar  when  the  cloth  is  removed,  and  when  I'm 
thirsty,  have  my  beer  in  its  native  pewter."  So  on  a  gala  day 
at  Clavering  Park,  the  Chevalier  would  content  himself  with 
superintending  the  arrangements  of  the  table,  and  drilling  the 
major-domo  and  servants  ;  and  having  looked  over  the  bill  of 
fare  with  Monsieur  Mirobolant,  would  not  care  to  talve  the 
least  part  in  the  banquet.  ' '  Send  me  up  a  cutlet  and  a  bottle 
of  claret  to  my  room,"  this  philosopher  would  say,  and  from 
the  windows  of  that  apartment,  which  commanded  the  terrace 
and  avenue,  he  would  survey  the  company  as  the}'  arrived  in 
their  carriages,  or  take  a  peep  at  the  ladies  in  the  hall  through 
an  oeil-de-boeuf  which  commanded  it  from  his  corridor.  And 
the  guests  being  seated,  Strong  would  cross  the  park  to  Cap- 
tain Glanders's  cottage  at  Clavering,  or  to  pay  the  landlady-  a 
visit  at  the  Clavering  Arms,  or  to  drop  in  upon  Madame  Fribsby 
over  her  novel  and  tea.  Wherever  the  Chevalier  went  he  was 
welcome,  and  whenever  he  came  away  a  smell  of  hot  brandy 
and  water  lingered  behind  him. 

The  Butcher  Boy  —  not  the  worst  horse  in  Sir  Francis's 
stable  —  was  appropriated  to  Captain  Strong's  express  use; 
and  the  old  Campaigner  saddled  him  and  brought  him  home  at 
all  hours  of  the  day  or  night,  and  drove  or  rode  him  up  and 
down  the  countr}'.  Where  there  was  a  public-house  with  a 
good  tap  of  beer  —  where  thei'e  was  a  tenant  with  a  pretty 


256  PENDENNIS. 

daughter  who  played  on  the  piano  —  to  Chatteris,  to  the  play, 
or  the  barracks  —  to  Ba3'mouth,  if  any  fun  was  on  foot  there  ; 
to  the  rural  fairs  or  races,  the  Chevalier  and  his  brown  horse 
made  their  way  continually  ;  and  this  worthy  gentleman  lived 
at  free  quarters  in  a  friendly  country.  The  Butcher  Boy  soon 
took  Pen  and  the  Chevalier  to  Baymouth.  The  latter  was  as 
familiar  with  the  hotel  and  landlord  there  as  with  every  other 
inn  round  about ;  and  having  been  accommodated  with  a  bed- 
room to  dress,  they  entered  the  ball-room.  The  Chevalier  was 
splendid.  He  wore  three  little  gold  crosses  in  a  brochette  on 
the  portly  breast  of  his  blue  coat,  and  looked  like  a  foreign 
field-marshal. 

The  ball  was  public  and  all  sorts  of  persons  were  admitted 
and  encouraged  to  come,  young  Pynsent  having  views  upon  the 
count}',  and  Lady  Rockminster  being  patroness  of  the  ball. 
There  was  a  quadrille  for  the  aristocracy  at  one  end,  and  select 
benches  for  the  people  of  fashion.  Towards  this  end  the  Chev- 
alier did  not  care  to  penetrate  far  (as  he  said  he  did  not  care 
for  the  nobs)  ;  but  in  the  other  part  of  the  room  he  knew  every- 
body—  the  wine-merchants',  innkeepers',  tradesmen's,  solicit- 
ors', squire-farmers'  daughters,  their  sires  and  brothers,  and 
plunged  about  shaking  hands. 

■  ' '  Who  is  that  man  with  the  blue  ribbon  and  the  three- 
pointed  star?  "  asked  Pen.  A  gentleman  in  black  with  ringlets 
and  a  tuft  stood  gazing  fiercely  about  him,  with  one  hand  in 
the  arm-hole  of  his  waistcoat  and  the  other  holding  his  claque. 

"By  Jupiter,  it's  Mirobolant !  "  cried  Strong,  bursting  out 
laughing.      "'•  Bon  jour  ^   Chef!  —  Bon  jour  ^   Chevalier!" 

'•'-De  la  croix  de  Juillet^  Chevalier !  "  said  the  Chef,  laying 
his  hand  on  his  decoration. 

"  By  Jove,  here's  some  more  ribbon  !  "  said  Pen,  amused. 

A  man  with  very  black  hair  and  whiskers,  dyed  evidently 
with  the  purple  of  Tyre,  with  twinkling  eyes  and  white  eye- 
lashes, and  a  thousand  wrinkles  in  his  face,  which  was  of  a 
strange  red  color,  with  two  under- vests,  and  large  gloves  and 
hands,  and  a  profusion  of  diamonds  and  jewels  in  his  waistcoat 
and  stock,  with  coarse  feet  crumpled  into  immense  shiny  boots, 
and  a  piece  of  particolored  ribbon  in  his  button-hole,  here  came 
up  and  nodded  familiarl}'  to  the  Chevalier. 

The  Chevalier  shook  hands.  "  My  friend  Mr.  Pendennis," 
Strong  said.  "Colonel  Altamont,  of  the  body-guard  of  his 
Highness  the  Nawaub  of  Lucknow."  That  officer  bowed  to 
the  salute  of  Pen  ;  who  was  now  looking  out  eagerly  to  see  if 
the  person  he  wanted  had  entered  the  room. 


PENDENNIS.  257 

Not  yot.  But  the  band  ])ogan  presently  performing  ''  See 
the  Conquering  Hero  comes."  and  a  host  of  fashionables  — 
Dowager  Countess  of  Roekniinster.  Mr.  P^nsent  and  Miss  Bell, 
Sir  Francis  Clavering,  Bart.,  of  Clavering  Park,  Lady  Claver- 
ing  and  Miss  Amory,  Sir  Horace  Fogey,  Bart.,  Lady  Fogey, 

Colonel  and  Mrs.  Higgs, ^A'agg,  Esq.  (as  the  county  pajier 

afterwards  described  them),  entered  the  room. 

Pen  rushed  by  Blanche,  ran  up  to  Laura,  and  seized  her 
hand.  "God  bless  you!"  he  said,  "I  want  to  speak  to  you 
—  I  must  speak  to  you  —  Let  me  dance  with  you."  "  Not  for 
three  dances,  dear  Pen,"  she  said,  smihng :  and  he  fell  back, 
biting  his  nails  with  vexation,  and  foigetting  to  salute  Pynsent. 

After  Lady  Rockminster's  party,  Lad}-  Claveriiig's  followed 
in  the  procession. 

Colonel  Altamont  e^-ed  it  hard,  holding  a  most  musky 
pocket-handkerchief  up  to  his  face,  and  bursting  with  laughter 
behind  it. 

"•  Who's  the  gal  in  green  along  with  'era,  Cap'n?"  he  asked 
of  Strong. 

"That's  Miss  Amor}',  Lady  Clavering's  daughter,"  replied 
the  Chevalier. 

The  Colonel  could  hardly  contain  himself  for  laughing. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

CONTAINS    SOME    BALL-PRACTISING. 

Under  some  calico  draperies  in  the  shady  embrasure  of  a 
window,  Arthur  Pendennis  chose  to  assume  a  very  gloomy  and 
frowning  countenance,  and  to  watch  Miss  Bell  dance  her  first 
quadrille  with  Mr.  Pynsent  for  a  partner.  Miss  Laura's  face 
was  beaming  with  pleasure  and  good-nature.  The  lights  and 
the  crowd  and  music  excited  her.  As  she  spread  out  her  white 
robes,  and  performed  her  part  of  the  dance,  smiling  and  happy, 
her  brown  ringlets  flowing  back  over  her  lair  shoulders  from 
her  honest  rosy  face,  more  than  one  gentleman  in  the  room  ad- 
mired and  looked  after  her  ;  and  Lady  Fogey,  who  had  a  house 
in  London,  and  gave  herself  no  small  airs  of  fashion  when  in 
the  country,  asked  of  Lady  Rockminster  who  the  young  person 
was,  mentioned  a  reigning  beauty  in  London  whom,  in  her 
ladyship's  opinion,  Laura  was  rather  like,  and  pronounced  thai 
she  would  "  do." 

17 


258  PfiNDENNIS. 

Lady  Rockminster  would  have  been  ver}'  much  surprised  if 
any  protegee  of  hers  would  not  "do,"  and  wondered,  at  Lady 
Foge3''s  impudence  in  judging  upon  the  point  at  all.  She  sur- 
veyed Laura  with  majestic  glances  through  her  eye-glass.  She 
was  pleased  with  the  girl's  artless  looks,  and  gay  innocent  man- 
ner. Her  manner  is  ver}'  good,  her  ladyship  thought.  Her 
arms  are  rather  red,  but  that  is  a  defect  of  her  3'outh.  Her  ton 
is  far  better  than  that  of  the  little  pert  Miss  Amor}',  who  is 
dancing  opposite  to  her. 

Miss  Blanche  was,  indeed,  the  vis-a-vis  of  Miss  Laura,  and 
smiled  most  killingly  upon  her  dearest  friend,  and  nodded  to  her, 
and  talked  to  her,  when  they  met  during  the  quadrille  evolutions, 
and  patronized  her  a  great  deal.  Her  shoulders  were  the 
whitest  in  the  whole  room :  and  the}'  were  never  easy  in  her 
frock  for  one  single  instant :  nor  were  her  eyes,  which  rolled 
about  incessantly :  nor  was  her  little  figure  :  —  it  seemed  to 
say  to  all  the  people,  "Come  and  look  at  me — -not  at  that 
pink,  healthy,  bouncing  country  lass.  Miss  Bell,  who  scarcely 
knew  how  to  dance  till  I  taught  her.  This  is  the  true  Pari- 
sian manner  —  this  is  the  prettiest  little  foot  in  the  room, 
and  the  prettiest  little  cbaussure,  too.  Look  at  it,  Mr.  Pyn- 
sent.  Look  at  it,  Mr.  Pendennis,  you  who  are  scowling  behind 
the  curtain —  I  know  you  are  longing  to  dance  with  me." 

Laura  went  on  dancing,  and  keeping  an  attentive  eye  upon 
Mr.  Pen  in  the  embrasure  of  the  window.  He  did  not  quit  that 
retirement  during  the  first  quadrille,  nor  until  the  second,  when 
the  good-natured  Lady  Clavering  beckoned  to  him  to  come  up 
to  her  to  the  dais  or  place  of  honor  where  the  dowagers  were, 
and  whither  Pen  went  blushing  and  exceedingly  awkward,  as 
most  conceited  young  fellows  are.  He  performed  a  haughty 
salutation  to  Lady  Rockminster,  who  hardly  acknowledged  his 
bow  and  then  went  and  paid  his  respects  to  the  widow  of  the  late 
Amory,  who  was  splendid  in  diamonds,  velvet,  lace,  feathers, 
and  all  sorts  of  millinery  and  goldsmith's  ware. 

Young  Mr.  Fogey,  then  in  the  fifth  form  at  Eton,  and  ar- 
dently expecting  his  beard  and  his  commission  in  a  dragoon 
regiment,  was  the  second  partner  who  was  honored  with  Miss 
Bell's  hand.  He  was  rapt  in  admiration  of  that  young  lady. 
He  thought  he  had  never  seen  so  charming  a  creature.  "  I  like 
you  much  better  than  the  French  girl "  ( for  this  young  gentle- 
man had  been  dancing  with  Miss  Amory  before) ,  he  candidly 
said  to  her.  Laura  laughed,  and  looked  more  good-humored 
than  ever ;  and  in  the  midst  of  her  laughter  caught  a  sight  of 
Pen,  and  continued  to  laugh  as  he,  on  his  side,  continued  to 


PENDENNIS.  259 

look  absurdly  pompous  and  sulky.  The  next  dance  was  a 
waltz,  and  young  Fogey  thought,  with  a  sigh,  that  he  did  not 
know  how  to  waltz,  and  vowed  he  would  have  a  master  the  next 
hoUdays. 

Mr.  Pynsent  again  claimed  Miss  Bell's  hand  for  this  dance  ; 
and  Pen  beheld  her,  in  a  fury,  twirling  round  the  room,  her 
waist  encircled  by  the  arm  of  that  gentleman.  He  never  used 
to  be  angr}-  before  when,  on  summer  evenings,  the  chairs  and 
tables  being  removed,  and  the  governess  called  down  stairs  to 
plaj-  the  piano,  he  and  the  Chevalier  Strong  (who  was  a  splen- 
did performer,  and  could  dance  a  British  hornpipe,  a  German 
waltz,  or  a  Spanish  fandango,  if  need  were),  and  the  two  young 
ladies,  Blanche  and  Laura,  improvised  little  balls  at  Clavering 
Park.  Laura  enjoyed  this  dancing  so  much,  and  was  so  ani- 
mated, that  she  even  animated  Mr.  Pynsent.  Blanche,  who 
could  dance  beautifull}',  had  an  unlucky  partner.  Captain  Broad- 
foot,  of  the  Dragoons,  then  stationed  at  Chatteris.  For  Cap- 
tain Broadfoot,  though  devoting  himself  with  great  energy  to 
the  object  in  view,  could  not  get  round  in  time  :  and,  not  having 
the  least  ear  for  music,  was  unaware  that  his  movements  were 
too  slow. 

So,  in  the  waltz  as  in  the  quadrille.  Miss  Blanche  saw  that 
her  dear  friend  Laura  had  the  honors  of  the  dance,  and  was  by 
no  means  pleased  with  the  latter's  success.  After  a  couple  of 
turns  with  the  heavy  dragoon,  she  pleaded  fatigue,  and  re- 
quested to  be  led  back  to  her  place,  near  her  mamma,  to  whom 
Pen  was  talking  :  and  she  asked  him  why  he  had  not  asked  her 
to  waltz,  and  had  left  her  to  the  mercies  of  that  great  odious 
man  in  spurs  and  a  red  coat? 

"  I  thought  spurs  and  scarlet  wei-e  the  most  fascinating  ob- 
jects in  the  world  to  ^oung  ladies,"  Pen  answered.  "  I  never 
should  have  dared  to  put  my  black  coat  in  competition  with  that 
splendid  red  jacket." 

"  You  are  ver}'  unkind  and  cruel  and  sulky  and  naughty," 
said  Miss  Am.ory,  with  another  shrug  of  the  shoulders.  "  You 
had  better  go  awa}'.  Your  cousin  is  looking  at  us  over  Mr. 
Pynsent's  shoulder." 

"  Will  you  M'altz  with  mc?"  said  Pen. 

"  Not  this  waltz.  I  can't,  having  just  sent  away  that  great 
hot  Captain  Broadfoot.  Look  at  Mr.  Pynsent,  did  you  ever 
see  such  a  creature  ?  But  I  will  dance  the  next  waltz  with  3-ou, 
and  the  quadrille  too.  I  am  promised,  but  I  will  tell  Mr.  Poole 
that  I  had  forgotten  my  engagement  to  you." 

"  Women  forget  very  readily,"  Pendennis  said. 


260  PENDENNIS. 

"  But  they  alwaj^s  come  back,  and  are  very  repentant  and 
sorry  for  what  they've  done,"  Blanche  said.  '^  See,  here  comes 
the  Poker,  and  dear  Laura  leaning  on  him.  How  pretty  she 
looks  ! " 

Laura  came  up,  and  put  out  her  hand  to  Pen,  to  whom 
Pynsent  made  a  sort  of  bow,  appearing  to  be  not  much  more 
graceful  than  that  domestic  instrument  to  which  Miss  Amory 
compared  him. 

But  Laura's  face  was  full  of  kindness.  "  I  am  so  glad  you 
have  come,  dear  Pen,"  she  said.  "  I  can  speak  to  you  now. 
How  is  mamma  ?  The  three  dances  are  over,  and  I  am  engaged 
to  you  for  the  next.  Pen." 

"  I  have  just  engaged  myself  to  Miss  Amory,"  said  Pen  ; 
and  Miss  Amory  nodded  her  head,  and  made  her  usual  little 
curtsy.  "  T  don't  intend  to  give  him  up,  dearest  Laura,"  she 
said. 

"Well,  then,  he'll  waltz  with  me,  dear  Blanche,"  said  the 
other.     ' '  Won't  you,  Pen  ?  " 

"  I  promised  to  waltz  with  Miss  Amory." 

"  Provoking  !  "  said  Laura,  and  making  a  curtsy  in  hertm-n, 
she  went  and  placed  herself  under  the  ample  wing  of  Lady 
Rockminster. 

Pen  was  delighted  with  his  mischief.  The  two  prettiest  girls 
in  the  room  were  quarrelling  about  him.  He  flattered  himself 
he  had  punished  Miss  Laura.  He  leaned  in  a  dandified  air, 
with  his  elbow  over  the  wall,  and  talked  to  Blanche  :  he  quizzed 
unmercifully  all  the  men  in  the  room  —  the  heaA^y  dragoons  in 
their  tight  jackets  —  the  countr}'  dandies  in  their  queer  attire  — - 
the  strange  toilettes  of  the  ladies.  One  seemed  to  have  a  bird's 
nest  in  her  head  ;  another  had  six  pounds  of  grapes  in  her  hair, 
beside  her  false  pearls.  "  It's  a  coiffure  of  almonds  and  rai- 
sins," said  Pen,  '•  and  might  be  served  up  for  dessert."  In  a 
word,  he  was  exeeedingl}-  satirical  and  amusing. 

During  the  quadrille  he  carried  on  this  kind  of  conversation 
(with  unflinching  bitterness  and  vivacity,  and  kept  Blanche  con- 
tinuall}^  laughing,  both  at  his  wickedness  and  jokes,  which  were 
good,  and  also  because  Laura  was  again  their  vis-a-vis,  and 
could  see  and  hear  how  merry  and  confidential  they  were. 

"Arthur  is  charming  to-night,"  she  whispered  to  Laura, 
across  Cornet  Perch's  shell-jacket,  as  Pen  was  performing  cava- 
lier seul  before  them,  drawling  through  that  figure  with  a  thumb 
in  the  pocket  of  each  waistcoat. 

"  Who?"  said  Laura. 

"  Arthur,"  answered  Blanche,  in  French.     "  Oh,  it's  such  a 


PENDENNIS.  261 

pretty  name  I  "  And  now  the  young  ladies  went  over  to  Pen's 
side,  and  Cornet  Perch  performed  a  pas  seul  in  his  turn.  He 
had  no  waistcoat  pocket  to  put  bis  hands  into,  and  they  looked 
large  and  swollen  as  they  hung  before  him  depending  from  the 
tight  arms  in  the  jacket. 

During  the  interval  between  the  quadrille  and  the  succeed- 
ing waltz,  Pen  did  not  take  any  notice  of  Laura,  except  to  ask 
her  whether  her  partner.  Cornet  Perch,  was  an  amusing  youth, 
and  whether  she  liked  him  so  well  as  her  other  partner,  Mr. 
Pj-nsent.  Having  planted  which  two  daggers  in  Laura's  bosom, 
Mr.  Pendennis  proceeded  to  rattle  on  with  Blanche  Amory, 
and  to  make  jokes  good  or  bad,  but  which  were  always  loud. 
Laura  was  at  a  loss  to  account  for  her  cousin's  sulky  behav- 
ior, and  ignorant  in  what  she  had  offended  him  ;  however,  she 
was  not  angry  in  her  turn  at  Pen's  splenetic  mood,  for  she  was 
the  most  good-natured  and  forgiving  of  women,  and  besides,  an 
exhibition  of  jealousy  on  a  man's  part  is  not  alwa3'S  disagreea- 
ble to  a  lady. 

As  Pen  could  not  dance  with  her,  she  was  glad  to  take  up 
with  the  active  Chevalier  Strong,  who  was  a  still  better  per- 
former than  Pen  ;  and  being  very  fond  of  dancing,  as  every 
brisk  and  innocent  3*oung  girl  should  be,  when  the  waltz  music 
began  she  set  off",  and  chose  to  enjoy  herself  with  all  her  heart. 
Captain  Broadfoot  on  this  occasion  occupied  the  floor  in  con- 
junction with  a  lad^'  of  proportions  scarcely  inferior  to  his  own  ; 
Miss  Roundle,  a  large  young  woman  in  a  strawberry-ice  colored 
crape  dress,  the  daughter  of  the  lady  with  the  grapes  in  her 
head,  whose  bunches  Pen  had  admired. 

And  now  taking  his  time,  and  with  his  fair  partner  Blanche 
hanging  lovingly  on  the  arm  which  encircled  her,  Mr.  Arthur 
Pendennis  set  out  upon  his  waltzing  career,  and  felt,  as  he 
whirled  round  to  the  music,  that  he  and  Blanche  were  perform- 
ing very  brilliantly  indeed.  Very  likely  he  looked  to  see  if  Miss 
Bell  thought  so  too  ;  but  she  did  not  or  would  not  see  him,  and 
was  always  engaged  with  her  partner  Captain  Strong.  But 
Pen's  triumph  was  not  destined  to  last  long  :  and  it  was  doomed 
that  poor  Blanche  was  to  have  yet  another  discomtiture  on  that 
unfortunate  night.  While  she  and  Pen  were  whirling  round  as 
light  and  brisk  as  a  couple  of  opera-dancers,  honest  Captain 
Broadfoot  and  the  lady  round  whose  large  waist  he  was  cling- 
ing, were  twisting  round  very  leisurel^^  according  to  their  na- 
tures, and  indeed  were  in  everybody's  way.  But  they  were 
more  in  Pendennis's  way  than  in  anybody's  else,  for  he  and 
Blanche,  whilst  executing  their  rapid  gyrations,  came  bolt  up 


262  PENDENNIS. 

against  the  heav}'  dragoon  and  his  lady,  and  with  such  force 
that  the  centre  of  gravity  was  lost  by  all  four  of  the  circum- 
volving  bodies  ;  Captain  Broadfoot  and  Miss  Roundle  were 
fairly  upset,  as  was  Pen  himself,  who  was  less  luck}'  than  his 
partner  Miss  Amory,  who  was  onl}'  thrown  upon  a  bench  against 
a  wall. 

But  Pendennis  came  fairly  down  upon  the  floor,  sprawling 
in  the  general  ruin  with  Broadfoot  and  Miss  Roundle.  The 
Captain,  though  heavy,  was  good-natured,  and  was  the  first  to 
burst  out  into  a  loud  laugh  at  his  own  misfortune,  which  nobody 
therefore  heeded.  But  Miss  Amory  was  savage  at  her  mishap  ; 
Miss  Roundle  placed  on  her  seant,  and  looking  pitifully  round, 
presented  an  object  which  ver^-  few  people  could  see  without 
laughing ;  and  Pen  was  furious  when  he  heard  the  people 
giggling  about  him.  He  was  one  of  those  sarcastic  young 
fellows  that  did  not  bear  a  laugh  at  his  own  expense,  and  of  all 
things  in  the  world  feared  ridicule  most. 

As  he  got  up  Laura  and  Strong  were  laughing  at  him  ;  every- 
body was  laughing ;  Pynsent  and  his  partner  were  laughing ; 
and  Pen  boiled  with  wrath  against  the  pair,  and  could  have 
stabbed  them  both  on  the  spot.  He  turned  away  in  a  fury 
from  them,  and  began  blundering  out  apologies  to  Miss  Amory. 
It  was  the  other  couple's  fault  —  the  woman  in  pink  had  done 
it  —  Pen  hoped  Miss  Amory  was  not  hurt  —  would  she  not 
have  the  courage  to  take  another  turn  ? 

Miss  Amor}-  in  a  pet  said  she  was  very  much  hurt  indeed, 
and  she  would  not  take  another  turn ;  and  she  accepted  with 
great  thanks  a  glass  of  water  which  a  cavalier,  who  wore  a  blue 
ribbon  and  a  three-pointed  star,  rushed  to  fetch  for  her  when 
he  had  seen  the  deplorable  accident.  She  drank  the  water, 
smiled  upon  the  bringer  gracefully,  and  turning  her  whita 
shoulder  at  Mr.  Pen  in  the  most  marked  and  haughty  manner, 
besought  the  gentleman  with  the  star  to  conduct  her  to  hei 
mamma ;  and  she  held  out  her  hand  in  order  to  take  his  arm. 

The  man  with  the  star  trembled  with  delight  at  this  mark 
of  her  favor ;  he  bowed  over  her  Imnd,  pressed  it  to  his  coat 
fervidly,  and  looked  round  him  with  triumph. 

It  was  no  other  than  the  happy  Mirobolant  whom  Blanche 
had  selected  as  an  escort.  But  the  truth  is,  that  the  young 
lady  had  never  fairly  looked  in  the  artist's  face  since  lie  had 
been  employed  in  her  mother's  family,  and  had  no  idea  but  it 
was  a  foreign  nobleman  on  whose  arm  she  was  leaning.  As 
she  went  oiT,  Pen  forgot  his  humiliation  in  his  surprise,  and 
cried  out,  '*  By  Jove,  it's  the  cook  J  " 


PENDENNIS.  263 

The  instant  lie  had  uttered  the  words,  he  was  sorry  for  hav- 
ing spoken  them  —  for  it  was  Blanche  who  had  herself  invited 
Mirobolant  to  escort  her,  nor  could  the  artist  do  otherwise  than 
compiy  with  a  lady's  command.  Blanche  in  her  flutter  did  not 
hear  what  Arthur  said  ;  but  Mirobolant  heard  him,  and  cast  a 
furious  glance  at  him  over  his  shoulder,  which  rather  amused 
Mr.  Pen.  He  was  in  a  mischievous  and  sulky  humor  ;  wanting 
perhaps  to  pick  a  cjuarrel  with  somebody  ;  but  the  idea  of  hav- 
ing nisuited  a  cook,  or  that  such  an  individual  should  have  any 
feeling  of  honor  at  all,  did  not  much  enter  into  the  mind  of  this 
lofty  young  aristocrat,  the  apothecary's  son. 

It  had  never  entered  that  poor  artist's  head,  that  he  as  a 
man  was  not  equal  to  any  other  mortal,  or  that  there  was  any- 
thing in  his  position  so  degrading  as  to  prevent  him  from  giving 
hia  arm  to  a  lady  v/ho  asked  for  it.  He  had  seen  in  the  fetes 
in  his  own  country  fine  ladies,  not  certainl}-  demoiselles  (but 
the  demoiselle  Anglaise  he  knew  was  a  gi'eat  deal  more  free 
than  the  spinster  in  France)  join  in  the  dance  with  Blaise  or 
Pierre  ;  and  he  would  have  taken  Blanche  up  to  Lady  Claver- 
inp:,  and  possibl}'  have  asked  her  to  dance  too,  but  he  heard 
Pen's  exclamation,  which  struck  him  as  if  it  had  shot  him,  and 
cruelly  humiliated  and  angered  him.  She  did  not  know  what 
caused  him  to  start,  and  to  grind  a  Gascon  oath  between  his 
teeth. 

But  Strong,  who  was  acquainted  with  the  poor  fellow's  state 
of  mind,  having  had  the  interesting  information  from  our  friend 
Madame  Fribsbj',  was  luckily  in  the  wa}"  when  wanted,  and 
saying  something  rapidly  in  Spanish,  which  the  other  under- 
stood, the  Chevalier  begged  Miss  Amor}^  to  come  and  take  an 
ice  before  she  went  back  to  Lady  Clavering.  Upon  which  the 
unhappy  Mirobolant  relinquished  the  arm  which  he  had  held 
for  a  minute,  and  with  a  most  profound  and  piteous  bow,  fell 
back.  "  Don't  you  know  who  it  is?"  Strong  asked  of  Miss 
Amory,  as  he  led  her  away.     "  It  is  the  chef  Mirobolant." 

"  How  should  I  know?  "  asked  Blanche.  ''  He  has  a  croix ; 
he  is  very  distingvv  ;  he  has  beautiful  e3"es." 

"  The  i)oor  fellow  is  mad  for  your  beaux  yeux^  I  believe," 
Strong  said.  "  He  is  a  very  good  cook,  but  he  is  not  quite 
right  in  the  head." 

"  What  did  3'ou  say  to  him  in  the  unknown  tongue?  "  asked 
Miss  Blanche. 

"  He  is  a  Gascon,  and  comes  from  the  borders  of  Spain," 
Strong  answered.  "  I  told  him  he  would  lose  his  place  if  he 
walked  with  3'Ou." 


264  PENDENNIS. 

"  Poor  Monsieur  Mirobolant !  "  said  Blanche. 

"  Did  you  see  the  look  he  gave  Pendennis  ?  " —  Strong  asked, 
enjoying  the  idea  of  the  mischief —  "I  think  he  would  like  to 
run  little  Pen  through  with  one  of  his  spits." 

"  He  is  an  odious,  conceited,  clumsy  creature,  that  Mr. 
Pen,"  said  Blanche. 

"  Broadfoot  looked  as  if  he  would  like  to  kill  him  too,  so  did 
Pynsent,"  Strong  said.  "  What  ice  will  you  have  —  ^ater  ice 
or  cream  ice  ?  " 

"  Water  ice.  Who  is  that  odd  man  staring  at  me  —  he  is 
decore  too," 

"  That  is  m}'  friend  Colonel  Altamont,  a  ver}'  queer  charac- 
ter, in  the  service  of  the  Nawaub  of  Lucknow.  Hallo  !  what's 
that  noise.  I'll  be  back  in  an  instant,"  said  the  Chevalier,  and 
sprang  out  of  the  room  to  the  ball-room,  where  a  scuffle  and  a 
noise  of  high  voices  was  heard. 

The  refreshment-room,  in  which  Miss  Armor}^  now  found 
herself,  was  a  room  set  apart  for  the  purposes  of  supper,  which 
Mr.  Rincer  the  landlord  had  provided  for  those  who  chose  to 
partake,  at  the  rate  of  five  shillings  per  head.  Also,  refresh- 
ments of  a  superior  class  were  here  ready  for  the  ladies  and 
gentlemen  of  the  county  families  who  came  to  the  ball ;  but  the 
commoner  sort  of  persons  were  kept  out  of  the  room  by  a  waiter 
who  stood  at  the  portal,  and  who  said  that  was  a  select  room 
for  Lady  Clavering  and  Lady  Rockminster's  parties,  and  not 
to  be  opened  to  the  public  till  supper-time,  which  was  not  to 
be  until  past  midnight.  Pynsent,  who  danced  with  his  con- 
stituents' daughters,  took  them  and  their  mammas  in  for  their 
refreshment  there.  Strong,  who  was  manager  and  master  of 
the  revels  wherever  he  went,  had  of  course  the  entree  —  and  the 
only  person  who  was  now  occupying  the  room,  was  the  gentle- 
man with  the  black  wig  and  the  orders  in  his  button-hole ; 
the  officer  in  the  service  of  his  Highness  the  Nawaub  of 
Lucknow. 

This  gentleman  had  established  himself  very  early  in  the 
evening  in  this  apartment,  where,  sajing  he  was  confoundedly 
thu-sty,  he  called  for  a  bottle  of  champagne.  At  this  order, 
the  waiter  instantly  supposed  tliat  lie  had  to  do  with  a  grandee, 
and  the  Colonel  sat  down  and  began  to  eat  his  supper  and 
absorb  his  drink,  and  enter  affably  into  conversation  with  any- 
body who  entered  the  room. 

Sir  Francis  Clavering  and  Mr.  Wagg  found  him  there  ;  when 
they  left  the  ball-room,  which  the}-  did  pretty-  early  —  Sir  Francis 
to  go  and  smoke  a  cigar,  and  look  at  the  people  gathered  out- 


PENDENNIS.  265 

side  the  ball-room  on  the  shore,  which  he  declared  was  much 
better  fun  than  to  remain  within  ;  Mr.  Wagg  to  hang  on  to  a 
Baronet's  arm,  as  he  was  always  pleased  to  do  on  the  arm  of 
the  greatest  man  in  the  compan}-.  Colonel  Altamont  had  stared 
at  these  gentlemen  in  so  odd  a  manner,  as  they  passed  through 
the  "  Select"  room,  that  Clavering  made  inquiries  of  the  land- 
lord who  he  was,  and  hinted  a  strong  opinion  that  the  officer  of 
the  Nawaub's  service  was  drunk. 

Mr.  Pynscnt,  too,  had  had  the  honor  of  a  conversation  with 
the  servant  of  the  Indian  potentate.  It  was  Pynsent's  cue  to 
speak  to  everybody  ;  (which  he  did,  to  do  him  justice,  in  the 
most  ungracious  manner;)  and  he  took  the  gentleman  in  the 
black  wig  for  some  constituent,  some  merchant  captain,  or 
other  outlandish  iBan  of  the  place.  Mr.  P^nsent,  then,  coming 
into  the  refreshment-room  with  a  lady,  the  wife  of  a  constituent, 
on  his  arm,  the  Colonel  asked  him  if  he  would  tr}-  a  glass  of 
Sham?  Pynsent  took  it  with  great  gravity,  bowed,  tasted  the 
wine,  and  pronounced  it  excellent,  and  with  the  utmost  polite- 
ness retreated  before  Colonel  Altamont.  This  gravity  and 
decorum  routed  and  surprised  the  Colonel  more  than  any  other 
kind  of  behavior  probably  would :  he  stared  after  Pynsent 
stupidh',  and  pronounced  to  the  landlord  over  the  counter  that 
he  wasa  rum  one.  Mr.  Rincer  blushed,  and  hardly  knew  what 
to  say.  Mr.  Pynsent  was  a  county  Earl's  grandson,  going  to 
set  up  as  a  Parliament  man.  Colonel  Altamont,  on  the  other 
hand,  wore  orders  and  diamonds,  jingled  sovereigns  constantly 
in  his  pocket,  and  paid  his  way  lilvc  a  man  ;  so  not  knowing  what 
to  say,  Mr.  Rincer  said,  "  Yes,  Colonel  —  yes,  ma'am,  did  you 
say  tea?  Cup  a  tea  for  Mr.  Jones,  Mrs.  R.,"  and  so  got  off 
that  discussion  regarding  Mr.  Pynsent's  qualities,  into  which 
the  Nizam's  officer  appeared  inclined  to  enter. 

In  fact,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  Mr.  Altamont,  having 
remained  at  the  buffet  almost  all  night,  and  employed  himself 
very  actively  whilst  there,  had  considerably  flushed  his  brain 
by  "drinking!  and  he  was  still  going  on  drinking,  when  Mr. 
Strong  and  Miss  Amor}^  entered  the  room. 

When  tlie  Chevalier  ran  out  of  the  apartment,  attracted  by 
the  noise  in  tlie  dancing-room,  the  Colonel  rose  from  his  chair 
with  his  little  red  eyes  glowing  like  coals,  and,  with  rath(>r  &n 
unsteady  gait,  advanced  towards  lilanche,  who  was  sipping  her 
ice.  She  was  absorbed  in  absorbing  it,  for  it  was  very  fresh 
and  good  ;  or  she  was  not  curious  to  know  what  was  going  on 
in  the  adjoining  room,  although  the  waiters  were,  who  ran  after 
Chevalier  Strong.     So  that  when  she  looked  up  from  her  glasst 


266  PENDEN"NIS. 

she  beheld  this  strange  man  staring  at  her  out  of  his  Uttle  red 
eyes.     "AVhowashe?     It  was  quite  exciting." 

"  And  so  you're  Betsy  Amor\^,"  said  he,  after  gazing  at  her. 
"  Betsy  Amory,  by  Jove  !  " 

"  Who  —  who  speaks  to  me?  "  said  Betsy,  alias  Blanche. 

But  the  noise  in  the  ball-room  is  reall}'  becoming  so  loud, 
that  we  must  rush  back  thither,  and  see  what  is  the  cause  of 
the  disturbance. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

WHICH   IS    BOTH   QUARRELSOME   AND    SENTIMENTAL. 

Civil  war  was  raging,  high  words  passing,  people  pushing 
and  squeezing  together  in  an  unseemly  manner,  round  a  window 
in  the  corner  of  the  ball-room,  close  b^'  the  door  through  which 
the  Chevalier  Strong  shouldered  his  way.  Through  the  opened 
window  the  crowd  in  the  street  below  was  sending  up  sarcastic 
remarks,  such  as  ''Pitch  into  him!"  ''Where's  the  police?" 
and  the  like  ;  and  a  ring  of  individuals,  among  whom  Madame 
Fribsby  was  conspicuous,  was  gathered  round  Monsieur  Alcide 
Mirobolant  on  the  one  side  ;  whilst  several  gentlemen  and  ladies 
surrounded  our  friend  Arthur  Pendennis  on  the  other.  Strong 
penetrated  into  this  assembl}',  elbowing  by  Madam  Fribsby, 
who  was  charmed  at  the  Chevalier's  appearance,  and  cried, 
'*  Save  him,  save  him  !  "  in  frantic  and  pathetic  accents. 

The  cause  of  the  disturbance,  it  appeared,  was  the  angry 
little  chef  of  Sir  Francis  Clavering's  culinary  establishment. 
Shortl}'  after  Strong  had  quitted  the  room,  and  whilst  Mr.  Pen, 
greatly  irate  at  his  downfall  in  the  waltz,  which  had  made  him 
look  ridiculous  in  the  e3'es  of  the  nation,  and  by  Miss  Amoiy's 
behavior  to  him,  which  had  still  further  insulted  his  dignit}', 
was  endeavoring  to  get  some  coolness  of  bod}'  and  temper,  by 
looking  out  of  window  towards  the  sea,  which  was  sparkling  in 
the  distance,  and  murmuring  in  a  wonderful  calm  —  whilst  he 
was  really  tr3'ing  to  compose  himself,  and  owning  to  himself, 
perhaps,  that  he  had  acted  in  a  ver}'  absurd  and  peevish  manner 
during  the  night  —  he  felt  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder;  and,  on 
looking  round,  beheld,  to  his  utter  surprise  and  horror,  that 
the  hand  in  question  belonged  to  Monsieur  Mirobolant,  whose 
eyes  were  glaring  out  of  his  pale  face  and  ringlets  at  Mr.  Pen. 
To  be  tapped  on  the  shoulder  b3'  a  French  cook  was  a  piece  of 


PEXDENXIS.  267 

familiarity  which  made  the  blood  of  the  Pendennises  to  boil  up 
in  the  veins  of  their  descendant,  and  he  was  astounded,  almost 
more  than  enraged,  at  such  an  indignity. 

"You  speak  French  ?  "  Mirobolant  said  in  his  own  language, 
to  Pen. 

"  What  is  that  to  you,  pray?"  said  Pen,  in  English. 

"At  any  rate,  you  understand  it?"  continued  the  other, 
with  a  bow. 

'•  Yes  sir,"  said  Pen,  with  a  stamp  of  his  foot ;  "I  under- 
stand it  prett}'  well." 

"  Vous  me  comprendrez  alors,  Monsieur  Pendennis,"  replied 
the  other,  rolling  out  his  r  with  Gascon  force,  ''  quand  je  vous 
dis  que  vous  etes  un  lache.  Monsieur  Pendennis — un  lache, 
entendez-vous  ?  " 

"  What?"  said  Pen,  starting  round  on  him. 

"  You  understand  the  meaning  of  the  word  and  its  conse- 
quences among  men  of  honor?"  the  artist  said,  putting  his 
hand  on  his  hip,  and  staring  at  Pen. 

"  The  consequences  are,  that  I  will  fling  you  out  of  window, 
you  —  impudent  scoundrel,"  bawled  out  Mr.  Pen;  and  darting 
upon  the  Frenchman,  he  would  very  likely  have  put  his  threat 
into  execution,  for  the  window  was  at  hand,  and  the  artist  by 
no  means  a  match  for  the  3'ouug  gentleman  —  had  not  Captain 
Broad  foot  and  another  heav}^  officer  flung  themselves  between 
the  combatants,  —  had  not  the  ladies  begun  to  scream, — had 
not  the  fiddles  stopped,  —  had  not  the  crowd  of  people  come 
running  in  that  direction,  — had  not  Laura,  with  a  face  of  great 
alarm,  looked  over  their  heads  and  asked  for  Heaven's  sake 
what  was  wrong — had  not  the  opportune  Strong  made  his 
appearance  from  the  refreshment-room,  and  found  Alcide 
grinding  his  teeth  and  jabbering  oaths  in  his  Gascon  French, 
and  Pen  looking  uncommonly  wicked,  although  trying  to  appear 
as  calm  as  possible,  when  the  ladies  and  the  crowd  came  up. 

'^  What  has  happened  !  "  Strong  asked  of  the  chef,  m  Span- 
ish. 

"  I  am  Chevalier  de  Juillet,"  said  the  other,  slapping  his 
breast,  "  and  he  has  insulted  me." 

"  What  has  he  said  to  you?"  asked  Strong. 

"II  m'a  appele — Cuisinier,"  hissed  out  the  little  French- 
man. 

Strong  could  hardly  help  laughing.  "  Come  away  with  me, 
my  poor  Chevalier,"  he  said.  "We  must  not  quarrel  before 
]adies.  Come  away  ;  I  will  carr}'  your  message  to  Mr.  Pen- 
dennis. —  The  noor  fellow  is  not  right  in  his  head,"  he  whiS' 


268  PENDENNIS. 

pered  to  one  or  two  people  about  liim  ;  —  and  others,  and 
anxious  Laura's  face  visible  amongst  these,  gathered  round 
Pen  and  asked  the  cause  of  the  disturbance. 

Pen  did  not  know.  "  The  man  was  going  to  give  his  arm 
to  a  young  lady,  on  which  I  said  that  he  was  a  cook,  and  the 
man  called  me  a  coward  and  challenged  me  ta  fight.  I  own 
I  was  so  surprised  and  indignant,  that  if  you  gentlemen  had  not 
stopped  me,  I  should  have  thrown  him  out  of  window,"  Pen 
said. 

'•D —  him,  serve  him  right,  too,  —  the  d —  impudent  for- 
eign scoundrel,"  the  gentlemen  said. 

"I  —  I'm  ver}^  sorry  if  I  hurt  his  feelings,  though,"  Pen 
added  :  and  Laura  was  glad  to  hear  him  say  that ;  although 
some  of  the  young  bucks  said,  ''  No,  hang  the  fellow,  — hang 
those  impudent  foreigners  —  little  thrashing  would  do  them 
good." 

"You  will  go.  and  shake  hands  with  him  before  you  go  to 
sleep  —  won't  3'ou,  Pen?"  said  Laura,  coming  up  to  him. 
"Foreigners  maybe  more  susceptible  than  we  are,  and  have 
different  manners.  If  you  hurt  a  poor  man's  feelings,  I  am 
sure  you  would  be  the  first  to  ask  his  pardon.  Wouldn't  you. 
dear  Pen  ?  " 

She  looked  all  forgiveness  and  gentleness,  like  an  angel,  as 
she  spoke,  and  Pen  took  both  her  hands,  and  looked  into  her 
kind  face,  and  said  indeed  he  would. 

"  How  fond  that  girl  is  of  me  !  "  he  thought,  as  she  stood 
gazing  at  him.  "  Shall  I  speak  to  her  now?  No  —  not  now. 
I  must  have  this  absurd  business  with  the  Frenchman  over." 

Laura  asked  — Wouldn't  he  stop  and  dance  with  her?  She 
was  as  anxious  to  keep  him  in  the  room,  as  he  to  quit  it. 
"  Won't  you  stop  and  waltz  with  me.  Pen?  I'm  not  afraid  to 
waltz  witli  you." 

This  was  an  affectionate,  but  an  unluck}-  speech.  Pen  saw 
himself  prostrate  on  the  ground,  having  tumbled  over  Miss 
Roundle  and  the  dragoon,  and  flung  Blanche  up  against  the 
wall  —  saw  himself  on  the  ground,  and  all  the  people  laughing 
at  him,  Laura  and  Pynsent  amongst  them. 

"I  shall  never  dance  again,"  he  replied,  with  a  dark  and 
determined  face.  "Never.  I'm  surprised  j'ou  should  ask 
me." 

"Is  it  because  you  can't  get  Blanche  for  a  partner?"  asked 
Laura,  with  a  wicked,  unlucky  captiousness. 

"Because  I  don't  wish  to  make  a  fool  of  myself,  for  other 
people  to  laugh  at  me,"  Pen  answered —  "  for  you  to  laugh  at 


PENDENNIS.  269 

me,  Laura.  I  saw  you  and  Pyuseut.  By  Jove !  uo  man  shall 
laugh  at  me." 

'•'  Pen,  Pen,  don't  be  so  wicked  !  "  cried  out  the  poor  girl, 
hurt  at  the  morbid  perverseness  and  savage  vanity  of  Pen. 
He  was  glaring  round  in  the  direction  of  Mr.  P^nsent  as  if  he 
would  have  liked  to  engage  that  gentleman  as  he  had  done 
the  cook.  "  •  Who  thinks  the  worse  of  you  for  stumbling  in  a 
waltz?"  If  Laura  does,  we  don't.  "Why  are  you  so  sensi- 
tive, and  ready  to  think  evil?  " 

Here  again,  by  ill  luck,  Mr.  Pvnsent  came  up  to  Laura,  and 
said,  "  I  have  it  in  command  from  Lady  Rocloninster  to  ask 
whether  I  may  take  3011  in  to  supper ? " 

"I  —  I  was  going  in  with  m}-  cousin,"  Laura  said. 

"Oh  —  pray,  no!"  said  Pen.  "You  are  in  such  good 
hands,  that  I  can't  do  better  than  leave  you  :  and  I'm  going 
home." 

"Good  night,  Mr.  Pendennis,"  Pynsent  said,  dryly  —  to 
which  speech  (which  in  fact,  meant,  ' '  Go  to  the  deuce  for  an 
insolent,  jealous,  impertinent  jackanapes,  whose  ears  I  should 
like  to  box ")  Mr.  Pendennis  did  not  vouchsafe  any  reply, 
except  a  bow :  and,  in  spite  of  Laura's  imploring  looks,  he 
left  the  room. 

"How  beautifully  calm  and  bright  the  night  outside  is!" 
said  Mr.  P^-nsent;  "and  what  a  murmur  the  seals  making! 
It  would  be  pleasanter  to  be  walking  on  the  beach  than  in  this 
hot  room." 

"  Ver}',"  said  Laura. 

"What  a  strange  congi'egation  of  people,"  continued  P3'n- 
sent.  "  I  have  had  to  go  up  and  perform  the  agreeable  to 
most  of  them  —  the  attorney's  daughters  —  the  apothecary's 
wife  —  I  scarcely  know  whom.  There  was  a  man  in  the  re- 
freshment-room, who  insisted  upon  treating  me  to  champagne 

—  a  seafaring  looking  man  —  extraordinarily  dressed,  and 
seeming  half  tips}'.  As  a  public  man.  one  is  bound  to  con- 
ciliate all  these  people,  but  it  is  a  hard  task  —  especialh' 
when  one  would  so  ver}'  much  like  to  be  elsewhere  "  --  and  he 
blushed  rather  as  he  spoke. 

"  I  beg  3'our  pardon,"  said  Laura —  "I  —  I  was  not  listen- 
ing. Indeed  —  I  was  frightened  about  that  quarrel  between 
my  cousin  and  that  —  that  —  French  person." 

"  Your  cousin  has  been  rather  unhickj'  to-night,"  Pynsent 
said.  "There  are  three  or  four  persons  wliom  he  has  not 
succeeded  in  pleasing  —  Captain  Broad  wood  ;  what  is  his  name 

—  the   officer  —  and   the  young   lady   in   red    with   whom   he 


270  PENDENNIS. 

danced  —  and  Miss  Blanche  —  and  the  poor  chef —  and  I 
don't  think  he  seemed  to  be  particularly  pleased  with  me." 

"  Didn't  he  leave  me  in  charge  to  you?"  Laura  said,  look- 
ing up  into  Mr.  Pynsent's  face,  and  dropping  her  eyes  instantly, 
like  a  guilty  little  story-telling  coquette. 

"  Indeed,  I  can  forgive  him  a  good  deal  for  that,"  Pyusent 
eagerly  cried  out,  and  she  took  his  arm,  and  he  led  off  his  little 
prize  in  the  direction  of  the  supper-room. 

She  had  no  great  desire  for  that  repast,  though  it  was  served 
in  Rincer's  well-known  style,  as  the  county  paper  said,  giv- 
ing an  account  of  the  entertainment  afterwards  ;  indeed,  she 
was  very  distraite  ;  and  exceedingly  pained  and  unhappy  about 
Pen.  Captious  and  quarrelsome  ;  jealous  and  selfish  ;  fickle 
and  violent  and  unjust  when  his  anger  led  him  astray  ;  how 
could  her  mother  (as  indeed  Helen  had  by  a  thousand  words 
and  hints)  ask  her  to  give  her  heart  to  such  a  man  ?  and  sup- 
pose she  were  to  do  so,  would  it  make  him  happ}'  ? 

But  she  got  some  relief  at  length,  when,  at  the  end  of  half 
an  hour — -a  long  half-hour  it  had  seemed  to  her  —  a  waiter 
brought  her  a  little  note  in  pencil  from  Pen,  who  said,  "  I  met 
Cooky  below  ready  to  fight  me  ;  and  I  asked  his  pardon.  I'm 
glad  I  did  it.  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  to-night,  but  will  keep 
what  I  had  to  say  till  you  come  home.  God  bless  3'ou.  Dance 
awa^'  all  night  with  Pynsent,  and  be  very  happy.  Pen."  — 
Laura  was  ver}'  thankful  for  this  letter,  and  to  think  that  there 
was  goodness  and  forgiveness  still  in  her  mother's  bo}'. 

Pen  went  down  stairs,  his  heart  reproaching  him  for  his 
absurd  behavior  to  Laura,  whose  gentle  and  imploring  looks 
followed  and  rebuked  him  :  and  he  was  scared}-  out  of  the 
ball-room  door  before  he  longed  to  turn  back  and  ask  her 
pardon.  But  he  remembered  that  he  had  left  her  with  that 
confounded  Pynsent.  He  could  not  apologize  before  him. 
He  would  compromise  and  forget  his  wrath,  and  make  his 
peace  with  the  Frenchman. 

The  Chevalier  was  pacing  down  below  in  the  hall  of  the  inn 
when  Pen  descended  from  the  ball-room  ;  and  he  came  up  to 
Pen,  with  all  sorts  of  fun  and  mischief  lighting  up  his  J0II3' 
face. 

"I  have  got  him  in  the  coflTee-room,"  he  said,  "with  a 
brace  of  pistols  and  a  candle.  Or  would  30U  like  swords  on 
the  beach?  Mirobolant  is  a  dead  hand  with  the  foils,  and 
killed  four  gardes-du-corps  with  his  own  point  in  the  barricades 
of  July." 


PENDENNIS.  271 

*'  Confound  it,"  said  Pen,  in  a  liuy,  "  I  can't  fight  a  cook  !  " 

"He  is  a  Clievalier  of  Jul}-,"  replied  the  other.  "  Tliey 
present  arms  to  him  in  his  own  country." 

"  And  do  you  ask  me,  Captain  Strong,  to  go  out  with  a 
servant?"  Pen  asked  fierceh" ;  '•  I'll  call  a  policeman  for  him: 
but  —  but  —  " 

"You'll  invite  me  to  hair  triggers?''  cried  Strong,  with  a 
laugh.  "  Thank  you  for  nothing;  1  was  but  joking.  I  came 
to  settle  quarrels,  not  to  fight  them.  I  have  been  soothing 
down  Mirobolant ;  I  have  told  him  that  you  did  not  apply  the 
word  '  Cook  '  to  him  in  an  offensive  sense  :  that  it  was  contrary 
to  all  the  customs  of  the  country  that  a  hired  officer  of  a  house- 
hold, as  I  called  it,  should  give  his  arm  to  the  daughter  of  the 
house."  And  then  he  told  Pen  the  grand  secret  which  he  had 
had  from  Madame  Fribsb^-,  of  the  Aaolent  passion  under  which 
the  poor  artist  was  laboring. 

When  Arthur  heard  this  tale,  he  broke  out  into  a  heart}' 
laugh,  in  which  Strong  joined,  and  his  rage  against  the  poor 
cook  vanished  at  once.  He  had  been  absurdly  jealous  himself 
all  the  evening,  and  had  longed  for  a  pretext  to  insult  Pynsent. 
He  remembered  how  jealous  he  had  been  of  Oaks  in  his  first 
affair ;  he  was  ready  to  pardon  anything  to  a  man  under  a  pas- 
sion like  that :  and  he  went  into  the  coffee-room  where  Miro- 
bolant was  waiting,  with  an  outstretched  hand,  and  made  him 
a  speech  in  French,  in  which  he  declared  that  he  was  "  Sin- 
cerement  fache  d'avoir  use  une  expression  qui  avoit  pu  blesser 
Monsieur  Mirobolant.  et  qu'il  donnoit  sa  parole  comme  un  gen- 
tilhomme  qu'il  ne  I'avoit  jamais,  jamais  —  intende,"  said  Pen, 
who  made  a  shot  at  a  F'rench  word  for  "  intended,"  and  was 
secretly  much  pleased  with  his  own  fluencj'  and  correctness  in 
speaking  that  language. 

"  Bravo,  bravo  !  "  cried  Strong,  as  much  amused  with  Pen's 
speech  as  pleased  by  his  kind  manner.  "And  the  Chevalier 
Mirobolant  of  course  withdraws,  and  sincerely  regrets  the  ex- 
pression of  which  he  made  use." 

,  "  Monsieur  Pendennis  has  disproved  my  words  himself," 
said  Alcide  with  great  politeness  ;  "he  has  shown  that  he  is  a 
galanf.  homme." 

And  so  they  shook  hands  and  parted,  Artluu-  in  the  first 
place  despatching  iiis  note  to  Laura  before  he  and  Strong  com- 
mitted themselves  to  the  Butcher  Boy. 

As  they  drove  along.  Strong  complimented  l*en  upon  his 
behavior,  as  well  as  upon  his  skill  in  French.  "  You're  a  good 
fellow,  Pendennis,  and  you  speak  French  like  Chateaubriand, 
by  Jove." 


272  PENDENXIS. 

' '  I've  been  accustomed  to  it  from  my  3'outh  upwards,"  said 
Pen  :  and  Strong  had  the  grace  not  to  laugh  for  five  minutes, 
when  he  exploded  into  fits  of  hilarity  which  Pendennis  has 
never,  perhaps,  understood  up  to  this  day. 

It  was  da3'break  when  they  got  to  the  Brawl,  where  the}' 
separated.  By  that  time  the  ball  at  Bay  mouth  was  over  too. 
Madame  Fribsby  and  Mirobolant  were  on  their  way  home  in 
the  Clavering  fly  ;  Laura  was  in  bed  with  an  easy  heart  and 
asleep  at  Lady  llockminster's  ;  and  the  Claverings  at  rest  at 
the  inn  at  Baymouth,  where  they  had  quarters  for  the  night. 
A  short  time  after  the  disturbance  between  Pen  and  the  chef, 
Blanche  had  come  out  of  the  refreshment- room,  looking  as  pale 
as  a  lemon-ice.  She  told  her  maid,  having  no  other  confidante 
at  hand,  that  she  had  met  with  the  most  romantic  adventure  — 
the  most  singular  man  —  one  who  had  known  the  author  of  her 
being  —  her  persecuted  —  her  unhappy  —  her  heroic  —  her  mur- 
dered father  ;  and  she  began  a  sonnet  to  his  manes  betore  she 
went  to  sleep. 

So  Pen  returned  to  Fairoaks,  in  company'  with  his  friend  the 
Chevalier,  without  having  uttered  a  word  of  the  message  which 
he  had  been  so  anxious  to  deliver  to  Laura  at  Baymouth.  He 
could  wait,  however,  until  her  return  home,  which  was  to  take 
place  on  the  succeeding  day.  He  was  not  seiiously  jealous  of 
the  progress  made  b}'  Mr.  P3'nsent  in  her  favor ;  and  he  felt 
prett}'  certain  that  in  this,  as  in  any  other  family  arrangement, 
he  had  but  to  ask  and  have,  and  Laura,  like  his  mother,  could 
refuse  him  nothing. 

When  Helen's  anxious  looks  inquired  of  him  what  had 
happened  at  Baymouth,  and  whether  her  darling  project  was 
fulfilled.  Pen,  in  a  gay  tone,  told  of  the  calamity  which  had 
befallen  ;  laughingly'  said,  that  no  man  could  think  about  dec- 
larations under  such  a  mishap,  and  made  light  of  the  matter. 
•'  There  will  be  plenty  of  time  for  sentiment,  dear  mother, 
when  Laura  comes  back,"  be  said,  and  he  looked  in  the  glass 
with  a  killing  air,  and  his  mother  put  his  hair  off"  his  fore- 
head and  kissed  him,  and  of  course  thought,  for  her  part,  that 
no  woman  could  resist  him  ;  and  was  exceedingl}'  happy  that 
day. 

When  he  was  not  with  her,  Mr.  Pen  occupied  himself  in 
packing  books  and  portmanteaus,  burning  and  arranging  papers, 
cleaning  his  gun  and  putting  it  into  its  case  :  in  fact,  in  making 
dispositions  for  departure.  For  though  he  was  read}'  to  marry, 
this  geuitlemau  was  eager  to  go  to  London  too,  rightly  consider- 


PENDENNIS.  273 

ing  that  at  three-and-twenty  it  was  quite  time  for  him  to  begin 
upon  the  serious  business  of  life,  and  to  set  about  making  a 
fortune  as  quiekh*  as  possible. 

The  means  to  this  end  he  had  already  shaped  out  for  him- 
self. "  I  shall  take  chambers,"  he  said,  "  and  enter  m^'self  at 
an  Inn  of  Court.  With  a  couple  of  hundred  pounds  I  shall  be 
able  to  carry  through  the  first  year  ver^-  well ;  after  that  I  have 
little  doubt  m}'  pen  will  support  me,  as  it  is  doing  with  several 
Oxbridge  men  now  in  town.  I  have  a  traged}-,  a  comed}-,  and 
a  novel,  all  nearly  finished,  and  for  which  I  can't  fail  to  get  a 
price.  And  so  I  shall  be  able  to  live  pretty  well,  without  draw- 
ing upon  m}'  poor  mother,  until  I  have  made  my  wa^'  at  the  bar. 
Then,  some  da}'  I  will  come  back  and  make  her  dear  soul  happy 
by  marrying  Laura.  She  is  as  good  and  as  sweet-tempered  a 
girl  as  ever  lived,  besides  being  reall}-  ver}'  good-looking,  and 
the  engagement  will  serve  to  steady  me,- — won't  it,  Ponto?" 
Thus,  smoking  his  pipe,  and  talking  to  his  dog  as  he  sauntered 
through  the  gardens  and  orchards  of  the  little  domain  of  Fair- 
oaks,  this  young  day-dreamer  built  castles  in  the  air  for  himself: 
"  Yes,  she'll  stead}'  me,  won't  she?  And  30u'll  miss  me  when 
I've  gone,  won't  you,  old  boy?"  he  asked  of  Ponto,  who  quiv- 
ered his  tail  and  thrust  his  brown  nose  into  his  master's  fist. 
Ponto  licked  his  hand  and  shoe,  as  they  all  did  in  that  house, 
and  Mr.  Pen  received  their  homage  as  other  folks  do  the  flattery 
which  the}'  get. 

Laura  came  home  rather  late  in  the  evening  of  the  second 
day ;  and  Mr.  Pynsent,  as  ill  luck  would  have  it,  drove  her 
from  Clavering.  The  poor  girl  could  not  refuse  his  offer,  but 
his  appearance  brought  a  dark  cloud  upon  the  brow  of  Arthur 
Pendennis.  Laura  saw  this,  and  was  pained  by  it :  the  eager 
widow,  however,  was  aware  of  nothing,  and  Iseing  anxious, 
doubtless,  that  the  delicate  question  should  be  asked  at  once, 
was  for  going  to  bed  very  soon  after  Laura's  arrival,  and  rose 
for  that  purpose  to  leave  the  sofa  where  she  now  generally  lay, 
and  where  Laura  would  come  and  sit  and  work  or  read  by  her. 
But  when  Helen  rose,  Laura  said,  with  a  blush  and  rather  an 
alarmed  voice,  that  she  was  also  very  tired  and  wanted  to  go  to 
bed  :  so  that  the  widow  was  disappointed  in  her  scheme  for  that 
nigiit  at  least,  and  Mr.  Pen  was  left  another  day  in  suspense 
regarding  liis  fate. 

His  dignity  was  offended  at  being  thus  obliged  to  remain  in 
the  ante-chamber  when  he  wanted  an  audience.  Such  a  sultan 
as  he,  could  not  afford  to  be  kept  waiting.  However,  he  went 
to  bed  and  slept  upon  his  disappointment  pretty  comfortably, 

18 


274  PENDENNIS. 

and  did  not  wake  until  the  early  morning,  when  he  looked  up 
and  saw  his  mother  standing  in  his  room. 

"  Dear  Pen,  rouse  up,"  said  this  lady.  "  Do  not  be  laz}*. 
It  is  the  most  beautiful  morning  in  the  world.  I  have  not  been 
able  to  sleep  since  daybreak ;  and  Laura  has  been  out  for  an 
hour.  She  is  in  the  garden.  Everybodj'  ought  to  be  in  the 
garden  and  out  on  such  a  morning  as  this." 

Pen  laughed.  He  saw  what  thoughts  were  uppermost  in  the 
simple  woman's  heart.  His  good-natured  laughter  cheered  the 
widow.  ''Oh,  you  profound  dissembler,"  he  said,  kissing  his 
mother.  "  Oh,  you  artful  creature  !  Can  nobody  escape  from 
your  wicked  tricks  ?  and  will  you  make  your  only  son  your  vic- 
iim?"  Helen  too  laughed,  she  blushed,  she  fluttered,  and  was 
agitated.  She  was  as  happy  as  she  could  be  —  a  good  tender, 
match-making  woman,  the  dearest  project  of  whose  heart  was 
about  to  be  accomplished. 

So,  after  exchanging  some  knowing  looks  and  hasty  words, 
Helen  left  Arthur ;  and  this  3'oung  hero,  rising  from  his  bed, 
proceeded  to  decorate  his  beautiful  person,  and  shave  his  am- 
brosial chin  ;  and  in  half  an  hour  he  issued  out  from  his  apart- 
ment into  the  garden  in  quest  of  Laura.  His  reflections  as  he 
made  his  toilette  were  rather  dismal.  •■'  I  am  going  to  tie  my- 
self for  life,"  he  thought,  "  to  please  my  mother.  Laura  is  the 
best  of  women,  and  —  and  she  has  given  me  her  money.  I 
wish  to  Heaven  I  had  not  received  it ;  I  wish  I  had  not  this 
duty  to  perform  just  3'et.  But  as  both  the  women  have  set 
their  hearts  on  the  match,  wh}^  I  suppose  I  must  satisfy  them 
—  and  now  for  it.  A  man  may  do  worse  than  make  happy  two 
of  the  best  creatures  in  the  world."  So  Pen,  now  he  was  actu- 
ally- come  to  the  point,  felt  ver}^  grave,  and  by  no  means  elated, 
and,  indeed,  thought  it  was  a  great  sacrifice  he  was  going  to 
perform. 

(  It  was  Miss  Laura's  custom,  upon  her  garden  excursions,  to 
wear  a  sort  of  uniform,  which,  though  homely,  was  thought  by 
many  people  to  be  not  unbecoming.  She  had  a  large  straw 
hat,  with  a  streamer  of  broad  ribbon,  which  was  useless  proba- 
bly, but  the  hat  sufflcientl}'  protected  the  owner's  pi-etty  face 
from  the  sun.  Over  her  accustomed  gown  she  wore  a  blouse 
or  pinafore,  which,  being  fastened  round  her  little  waist  by  a 
smart  belt,  looked  extremel}'  well,  and  her  hands  were  guaran- 
teed from  the  thorns  of  her  favorite  rose-bushes  by  a  paii-  of 
gauntlets,  which  gave  this  young  lady  a  military  and  resolute 
air. 


PENDEN^N^IS.  275 

Somehow  she  had  the  Aerv  same  smile  with  which  she  had 
laughed  at  him  on  the  night  previous,  and  the  recollection  of  his 
disaster  again  otionded  Pen.  But  Laura,  though  she  saw  him 
coming  down  the  walk  looking  so  gloomy  and  full  of  care,  ac- 
corded to  him  a  smile  of  the  most  perfect  and  provoking  good- 
humor,  and  went  to  meet  him,  holding  one  of  the  gauntlets  to 
him,  so  that  he  might  shake  it  if  he  liked  —  and  Mr.  Pen  con-| 
descended  to  do  so.  His  face,  however,  did  not  lose  its  tragic 
expression  in  consequence  of  this  favor,  and  he  continued  to 
regard  her  with  a  dismal  and  solemn  air. 

"  Excuse  my  glove."  said  Laura,  with  a  laugh,  pressing 
Pen's  hand  kindlv  with  it.  "  AVe  are  not  angrv  again,  are  we, 
Pen?" 

"  Wh}'  do  you  laugh  at  me?"  said  Pen.  "You  did  the 
other  night,  and  made  a  fool  of  me  to  the  people  at  Ba}'- 
mouth." 

"  M}-  dear  Arthur,  I  meant  you  no  wrong,"  the  girl  answered. 
"  You  and  Miss  Roundle  looked  so  droll  as  you  —  as  you  met 
with  your  little  accident,  that  I  could  not  make  a  tragedy  of  it. 
Dear  Pen,  it  wasn't  a  serious  fall.  And,  besides,  it  was  Miss 
Roundle  who  was  the  most  unfortunate." 

"  Confound  Miss  Roundle  !  "  bellowed  out  Pen. 

"  I'm  sure  she  looked  so,"  said  Laura,  archly-.  "  You  were 
up  in  an  instant ;  but  that  poor  lady  sitting  on  the  ground  in 
her  red  crape  dress,  and  looking  about  her  with  that  piteous 
face  —  can  I  ever  forget  her?"  —  and  Laura  began  to  make  a 
face  in  imitation  of  Miss  Roundle's  under  the  disaster,  but  she 
checked  herself  repentanth',  saying,  '"Well,  we  must  not  laugh 
at  her,  but  I  am  sure  we  ought  to  laugh  at  you,  Pen,  if  3'ou  were 
angry  about  such  a  trifle." 

"  Tou  should  not  laugh  at  me,  Laura,"  said  Pen,  with  some 
bitterness  ;  "  not  ^-ou,  of  all  people." 

"  And  whj'  not?   Are  3'OU  such  a  gi'eat  man?"  asked  Laura. 

"Ah  no,  Laura,  I'm  such  a  poor  one,"  Pen  answered. 
"  Haven't  3'ou  baited  me  enough  already?" 

"  M}'  dear  Pen.  and  how?  "  cried  Laura.  "  Indeed,  indeed, 
I  didiv't  think  to  vex  you  b}'  such  a  trifle.  I  thought  such  a 
clover  man  as  j'ou  could  bear  a  harmless  little  joke  from  his 
sister,"  she  said,  holding  her  hand  out  again.  "  Dear  Arthur, 
if  I  have  hurt  you,  I  beg  your  pardon." 

"It  is  your  kindness  that  humiliates  me  more  even  than 
your  laughter,  Laura,"  Pen  said.  "You  are  always  my 
superior." 

"What!    superior  to  the  great  Arthur  Pendennis?     How 


27G  PENDENNIS. 

can  it  be  possible?"  said  Miss  Laura,  who  may  have  had  a 
little  wickedness  as  well  as  a  great  deal  of  kindness  in  her 
composition.  "  You  can't  mean  that  any  woman  is  your 
equal  ?  " 

"Those  who  confer  benefits  should  not  sneer,"  said  Pen. 
"  I  don't  like  m}'  benefactor  to  laugh  at  me,  Laura  ;  it  makes 
the  obligation  very  hard  to  bear.  You  scorn  me  because  I 
have  taken  3'our  money,  and  I  am  worthy  to  be  scorned ;  but 
the  blow  is  hard  coming  from  you." 

"Money!  Obligation!  For  shame,  Pen  ;  this  is  ungener- 
ous," Laura  said,  flushing  red.  "  Moy  not  our  mother  claim 
everything  that  belongs  to  us  ?  Don't  I  owe  her  all  my  happi- 
ness in  this  world,  Arthur?  What  matters  about  a  few  paltry 
guineas,  if  we  can  set  her  tender  heart  at  rest,  and  ease  her 
mind  regarding  you?  I  would  dig  in  the  fields,  I  would  go 
out  and  be  a  servant  —  I  would  die  for  her.  You  know  I 
would,"  said  Miss  Laura,  kindling  up;  "and  you  call  this 
paltry  money  an  obligation  ?  Oh,  Pen,  it's  cruel  —  it's  unworthy 
of  30U  to  take  it  so  !  If  my  brother  may  not  share  with  me 
my  superfluit}^  who  may?  —  Mine?  —  I  tell  you  it  was  not 
mine  ;  it  was  all  mamma's  to  do  with  as  she  chose,  and  so  is 
everything  I  have,"  said  Laura;  "My  life  is  hers."  And  the 
enthusiastic  girl  looked  towards  the  windows  of  the  widow's 
room,  and  blessed  in  her  heart  the  kind  creature  within. 

Helen  was  looking,  unseen,  out  of  that  window  towards 
which  Laura's  e3'es  and  heart  were  turned  as  she  spoke,  and 
was  watching  her  two  children  with  the  deepest  interest  and 
emotion,  longing  and  hoping  that  the  prayer  of  her  life  might 
be  fulfilled ;  and  if  Laura  had  spoken  as  Helen  hoped,  who 
knows  what  temptations  Arthur  Pendennis  might  have  been 
spared,  or  what  diflJ'erent  trials  he  would  have  had  to  undergo? 
He  might  have  remained  at  Fairoaks  all  his  days,  and  died 
a  country  gentleman.  But  would  he  have  escaped  then? 
Temptation  is  an  obsequious  servant  that  has  no  objection  to 
the  country,  and  we  know  that  it  takes  up  its  lodging  in  hermit- 
ages as  well  as  in  cities  ;  and  that  in  the  most  remote  and 
inaccessible  desert  it  keeps  company  with  the  fugitive  solitary. 

"  Is  your  life  my  mother's,"  said  Pen,  beginning  to  tremble, 
and  speak  in  a  very  agitated  manner.  "You  know,  Laura, 
what  the  great  object  of  hers  is?"  And  he  took  her  hand 
once  more. 

"What,  Arthur?"  she  said,  dropping  it,  and  looking  at 
him,  at  the  window  again,  and  then  dropping  her  eyes  to  the 
ground,  so  that  they  avoided  Pen's  iraze.     She,  too,  trembled, 


PENDENJaS.  277 

for  she  felt  that  the  crisis  for  which  she  had  been  secretly  pre- 
paring was  come. 

''Our  mother  has  one  wish  above  all  others  in  the  world, 
Laura,"  Pen  said,  "and  I  think  you  know  it.  I  own  to  j'ou 
that  she  has  spoken  to  me  of  it ;  and  if  you  will  fulfil  it,  dear 
sister,  I  am  ready.  I  am  but  very  young  as  yet ;  but  I  have 
had  so  man}'  pains  and  disappointments,  that  I  am  old  and 
•weary.  I  think  I  have  hardh'  got  a  heart  to  offer.  Before  I 
have  almost  begun  the  race  in  life,  1  am  a  tired  man.  My 
career  has  been  a  failure  ;  I  have  been  protected  b}-  those  whom 
I  by  right  should  have  protected.  I  own  that  3'our  nobleness 
and  generosity,  dear  Laura,  shame  me,  whilst  the}'  render  me 
grateful.  When  I  heard  from  our  mother  what  you  had  done 
for  me :  that  it  was  you  who  armed  me  and  bade  me  go  out  for 
one  struggle  more  ;  I  longed  to  go  and  throw  myself  at  your 
feet,  and  say,  '  Laura,  will  you  come  and  share  the  contest 
with  me?  Your  sympathy  will  cheer  me  while  it  lasts.  I  shall 
have  one  of  the  tenderest  and  most  generous  creatures  under 
heaven  to  aid  and  bear  me  company.'  Will  you  take  me,  dear 
Laura,  and  make  our  mother  happy?" 

"  Do  you  think  mamma  would  be  happy  if  you  were  other- 
wise, Arthur?"  Laura  said  in  a  low  sad  voice. 

"  And  why  should  I  not  be,"  asked  Pen  eagerly,  "  with  so 
dear  a  creature  as  you  by  my  side  ?  I  have  not  my  first  love 
to  give  you.  I  am  a  broken  man.  But  indeed  I  would  love 
you  fondly  and  truly.  I  have  lost  many  an  illusion  and  ambi- 
tion, but  I  am  not  without  hope  still.  Talents  I  know  I  have, 
wretchedly  as  I  have  misapplied  them  :  they  may  serve  me  yet : 
they  would,  had  I  a  motive  for  action.  Let  me  go  away  and 
think  that  I  am  pledged  to  return  to  you.  Let  me  go  and  work, 
and  hope  that  you  will  share  my  success  if  I  gain  it.  You  have 
given  me  so  much,  dear  Laura,  will  vou  take  from  me  noth- 
ing?" 

"What  have  you  got  to  give,  Arthur?"  Laura  said,  with 
a  grave  sadness  of  tone,  which  made  Pen  start,  and  see  that 
his  words  had  committed  him.  Indeed,  his  declaration  had 
not  been  such  as  he  would  have  made  it  two  days  earlier,  when, 
full  of  hope  and  gratitude,  he  had  run  over  to  Laura,  his  libera- 
tress,  to  thank  her  for  his  recovered  freedom.  Had  he  been 
permitted  to  speak  then,  he  had  spoken,  and  she,  perhaps,  had 
listened  differently.  It  would  have  been  a  grateful  heart  asking 
for  hers  ;  not  a  weary  one  offered  to  her,  to  take  or  to  leave. 
Laura  was  offended  with  tlie  terms  in  which  Pen  off"ered  him- 
self to  her.     He  had.  in  fact,  said  that  he  had  no  love,  and  yet 


278  PENDENNIS. 

would  take  no  denial.  "I  give  myself  to  yon  to  please  my 
mother."  he  had  said:  "take  me,  as  she  wishes  that  I  should 
make  this  sacrifice."  The  girl's  spirit  would  brook  a  husband 
imder  no  such  conditions  :  she  was  not  minded  to  run  forward 
because  Pen  chose  to  hold  out  the  handkerchief,  and  her 
tone,  in  reply  to  Arthur,  showed  her  determination  to  be 
independent. 

"No,  Arthur,"  she  said,  "our  marriage  would  not  make 
mamma  happy,  as  she  fancies  ;  for  it  would  not  content  j'ou 
very  long.  I,  too,  have  known  what  her  wishes  were  ;  for  she 
is  too  open  to  conceal  anything  she  has  at  heart :  and  once, 
perhaps,  I  thought — but  that  is  over  now  —  that  I  could  have 
made  you  —  that  it  might  have  been  as  she  wished." 

"You  have  seen  somebody  else,"  said  Pen,  angry  at  her 
tone,  and  recalling  the  incidents  of  the  past  daj's. 

"That  allusion  might  have  been  spared,"  Laura  replied, 
flinging  up  her  head.  "A  heart  which  has  worn  out  love  at 
three-and-twenty,  as  j'ours  has,  you  sa^-,  should  have  survived 
jealous}'  too.  I  do  not  condescend  to  say  whether  I  have  seen 
or  encouraged  any  other  person.  I  shall  neither  admit  the 
charge,  nor  deny  it :  and  beg  you  also  to  allude  to  it  no  more." 

"  I  ask  your  pardon,  Laura,  if  I  have  oflfended  you:  but  if 
I  am  jealous,  does  it  not  prove  that  I  have  a  heart?" 

"Not  for  me,  Arthur.  Perhaps  you  think  you  love  me 
now :  but  it  is  only  for  an  instant,  and  because  you  are  foiled. 
Were  there  no  obstacle,  j'ou  would  feel  no  ardor  to  overcome 
it.  No,  Arthur,  you  don't  love  me.  You  would  wearj'  of  me 
in  three  months,  as  —  as  3'ou  do  of  most  things  ;  and  mamma, 
seeing  you  tired  of  me,  would  be  more  unhappy  than  at  my 
refusal  to  be  3'ours.  Let  us  be  brother  and  sister,  Arthur, 
as  heretofore  —  but  no  more.  You  will  get  over  this  little 
disappointment." 

"  I  will  tr}-,"  said  Arthur,  in  a  great  indignation. 

"Have  you  not  tried  before?"  Laura  said,  with  some 
anger,  for  she  had  been  angry  with  Arthur  for  a  very  long  time, 
and  was  now  determined,  I  suppose,  to  speak  her  mind.  "  And 
the  next  time,  Arthur,  when  3'Ou  offer  yourself  to  a  woman,  do 
not  sa}'  as  3'ou  have  done  to  me,  '  I  have  no  heart  —  I  do  not 
love  you  ;  but  I  am  ready  to  many  3'ou  because  my  mother 
wishes  for  the  match.'  We  require  more  than  this  in  return 
for  our  love  —  that  is,  I  think  so.  I  have  had  no  experience 
hitherto,  and  have  not  had  the  —  the  practice  which  3'OU  sup- 
posed me  to  have,  when  3-ou  spoke  but  now  of  m3'  having  seen 
somebody  else.     Did  you  tell  your  first  love  that  you  had  no 


PENDENNIS.  279 

heart,  Arthur?  or  your  second  that  you  did  not  love  her,  but 
that  she  might  have  you  if  she  hked  ?  " 

"What  —  what  do  30U  mean?"  asked  Arthur,  bhishing, 
and  still  in  great  wrath. 

'•  I  mean  Blanche  Amory,  Arthur  Pendennis,"  Laura  said, 
proudly.  "  It  is  but  two  months  since  you  were  sighing  at  her 
feet  —  making  poems  to  her  —  placing  them  in  hollow  trees  by 
the  river  side.  I  knew  all.  I  watched  you  —  that  is,  she 
showed  them  to  me.  Neither  one  nor  the  other  were  in  earnest 
perhaps  ;  but  it  is  too  soon  now,  Arthur,  to  begin  a  new  attach- 
ment. Go  through  the  time  of  your  —  your  widowhood  at 
least,  and  do  not  think  of  marrying  until  30U  are  out  of  mourn- 
ing."—  (Flere  the  girl's  e3-es  filled  with  tears,  and  she  passed 
her  hand  across  them.)  "I  am  angr}' and  hurt,  and  I  have 
no  right  to  be  so,  and  I  ask  your  pardon  in  m^-  turn  now,  dear 
Arthur.  You  had  a  right  to  love  Blanche.  8he  was  a  thousand 
times  prettier  and  more  accomplished  than  —  than  any  girl  near 
us  here  ;  and  you  could  not  know  that  she  had  no  heart ;  and 
so  you  were  right  to  leave  her  too.  I  ought  not  to  rebuke  you 
about  Blanche  Amory,  and  because  she  deceived  you.  Pardon 
me,  Pen,"  —  and  she  held  the  kind  hand  out  to  Pen  once  more. 

"We  were  both  jealous,"  said  Pen.  "  Dear  Laura,  let  us 
both  forgive"  —  and  he  seized  her  hand  and  would  have  drawn 
her  towards  him.  He  thought  that  she  was  relenting,  and 
alread}'  assumed  the  airs  of  a  victor. 

But  she  shrank  back,  and  her  tears  passed  away  ;  and  she 
fixed  on  him  a  look  so  melancholy'  and  severe,  that  the  30ung 
man  in  his  turn  shrunk  before  it.  "Do  not  mistake  me, 
Arthur,"  she  said,  "  it  cannot  be.  You  do  not  know  what  j-ou 
ask,  and  do  not  be  too  angr^-  with  me  for  saying  that  I  think 
you  do  not  deserve  it.  What  do  30U  offer  in  exchange  to  a 
woman  for  her  love,  honor,  and  obedience?  If  ever  I  sa^-  these 
words,  dear  Pen,  I  hope  to  say  them  in  earnest,  and  by  the 
blessing  of  God  to  keep  ni}'  vow.  But  you  —  what  tie  binds 
you?  You  do  not  care  about  man}'  things  which  we  poor 
women  hold  sacred.  I  do  not  jil^e  to  think  or  ask  how  far 
3'our  incredulity  leads  3'ou.  You  off'er  to  marry  to  please  our 
mother,  and  own  that  you  have  no  heart  to  give  away.  Oh, 
Arthur,  what  is  it  you  ofler  me?  What  a  rash  compact  would 
you  enter  into  so  lightly?  A  month  ago,  and  you  would  have 
given  3'ourself  to  another.  I  pra^'  3'ou  do  not  trifle  with  your 
own  or  others'  hearts  so  recklessly.  Go  and  work  ;  go  and 
menu,  dear  Artliur,  for  I  see  your  faults,  and  dare  speak  of 
them  now ;   go  and  get  fame,  as  you  say  that  you  can,  and  I 


280  PENDENNIS. 

will  pray  for  my  brother,  and  watch  our  dearest  mother  at 
home." 

"  Is  that  your  linal  decision,  Laura?  "  Arthur  cried. 

"  Yes,"  said  Laura,  bowing  her  liead  ;  and  once  more  giving 
him  her  hand,  she  went  away.  He  saw  lier  pass  under  the 
creepers  of  the  little  porch,  and  disappear  into  the  house.  The 
curtains  of  his  mother's  window  fell  at  the  same  minute,  but  he 
did  not  mark  that,  or  suspect  that  Helen  had  been  witnessing 
the  scene. 

Was  he  pleased,  or  was  he  angry  at  its  termination?  He 
had  asked  her,  and  a  secret  triumph  filled  his  heart  to  think 
that  he  was  still  free.  She  had  refused  him,  but  did  she  not 
love  him  ?  That  avowal  of  jealous^'  made  him  still  think  that 
her  heart  was  his  own,  whatever  her  lips  might  utter. 

And  now  we  ought,  perhaps,  to  describe  another  scene 
which  took  place  at  Fairoaks,  between  the  widow  and  Laura, 
when  the  latter  had  to  tell  Helen  that  she  had  refused  Arthur 
Pendennis.  Perhaps  it  was  the  hardest  task  of  all  which 
Laura  had  to  go  through  in  this  matter :  and  the  one  which 
gave  her  the  most  pain.  Rut  as  we  do  not  like  to  see  a  good 
woman  unjust,  we  shall  not  sa}'  a  word  more  of  the  quarrel 
which  now  befell  between  Helen  and  her  adopted  daughter,  or  of 
the  bitter  tears  which  the  poor  girl  was  made  to  shed.  It  was 
the  onl}-  difference  which  she  and  the  widow  had  ever  had  as 
yet,  and  the  more  cruel  from  this  cause.  Pen  left  home  whilst 
it  was  as  3'et  pending —  and  Helen,  who  could  pardon  almost 
ever^'thing,  could  not  pardon  an  act  of  justice  in  Laura. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII. 

BABYLON. 

Our  reader  must  now  please  to  quit  the  woods  and  seashore 
of  the  west,  and  the  gossip  of  Clavering,  and  the  humdrum  life 
of  poor  little  Fairoaks,  and  transport  himself  with  Arthur 
Pendennis,  on  the  "Alacrity"  coach,  to  London,  whither  he 
goes  once  for  all  to  face  the  world  and  to  make  his  fortune. 
As  the  coach  whirls  through  the  night  awa^'  from  the  friendly 
gates  of  home,  many  a  plan  does  the  young  man  cast  in  his 
mind  of  future  life  and  conduct,  prudence,  and  peradventure 


PENDENNIS.  281 

success  and  fame.  He  knows  he  is  a  better  man  than  many  who 
have  hitherto  been  ahead  of  him  in  the  race  :  his  lii'st  faikire  has 
caused  him  remorse,  and  brought  with  it  reflection  ;  it  has  not 
taken  awa}-  his  courage,  or,  let  us  add,  his  good  opinion  of  him- 
self. A  hundred  eager  fancies  and  bus}-  hopes  keep  him  awake. 
How  much  older  his  mishaps  and  a  ^-ear's  thought  and  self- 
communion  have  made  him,  than  when,  twelve  months  since, 
he  passed  on  this  road  on  his  way  to  and  from  Oxbridge !  His 
thoughts  turn  in  the  night  with  inexpressible  fondness  and  ten- 
derness towards  the  fond  mother,  who  blessed  him  when  part- 
ing, and  who,  in  spite  of  all  his  past  faults  and  follies,  trusts 
him  and  loves  him  still.  Blessings  l)e  on  her !  he  prays,  as  he 
looks  up  to  the  stars  overhead.  O  Heaven,  give  him  strength 
to  work,  to  endure,  to  be  honest,  to  avoid  temptation,  to  be 
worth}-  of  the  loving  soul  who  loves  him  so  entirely !  Ver}' 
likel}'  she  is  awake  too,  at  that  moment,  and  sending  up  to  the 
same  Father  purer  prayers  than  his  for  the  welfare  of  her  boy. 
That  woman's  love  is  a  talisman  b}'  which  he  holds  and  hopes 
to  get  his  safet}'.  And  Laura's  —  he  would  have  "ain  carried 
her  affection  with  him  too,  but  she  has  denied  it,  as  he  is  not 
worthy  of  it.  He  owns  as  much  with  shame  and  remorse,  con- 
fesses how  much  better  and  loftier  her  nature  is  than  his  own 
—  confesses  it,  and  3-et  is  glad  to  be  free.  "  I  am  not  good 
enough  for  such  a  creature,"  he  owns  to  himself.  He  draws 
back  before  her  spotless  beauty  and  innocence,  as  from  some- 
thing that  scares  him.  He  feels  he  is  not  fit  for  such  a  mate  as 
that ;  as  many  a  wild  prodigal  who  has  been  pious  and  guiltless 
in  early  days,  keeps  away  from  a  church  which  he  used  to  fre- 
quent once  —  shunning  it,  but  not  hostile  to  it  —  only  feeUng 
that  he  has  no  right  in  that  pure  place. 

With  these  thoughts  to  occupy  him,  Pen  did  not  fall  asleep 
until  the  nipping  dawn  of  an  October  morning,  and  woke  con- 
siderably refreshed  when  the  coach  stopped  at  the  old  break- 
fasting place  at  B ,  where  he  had  bad  a  score  of  merry 

meals  on  his  way  to  and  from  school  and  college  many  times 
since  he  was  a  boy.  As  they  left  that  place,  the  sun  broke  out 
brightly,  the  pace  was  rapid,  the  horn  blew,  the  milestones 
flew  b}'.  Pen  smoked  and  joked  with  guard  and  fellow-passen- 
gers and  people  along  the  famihar  road ;  it  grew  more  busy 
and  animated  at  every  instant ;  the  last  team  of  grays  came 

out  at  H ,  and  the  coach  drove  into  London.     What  ^'oung 

fellow  has  not  felt  a  thrill  as  he  entered  the  vast  place  ?  Hun- 
dreds of  other  carriages,  crowded  with  their  thousands  of  men, 
were  hastening  to  the  great  city.     "  Here  is  my  place,"  thought 

10 


282  PENDENNIS. 

Pen  ;  "  here  is  1113'  battle  beginning,  in  which  I  must  fight  and 
conquer,  or  fall.  I  have  been  a  boy  and  a  dawdler  as  yet. 
Oh,  I  long,  I  long  to  show  that  I  can  be  a  man."  And  from 
his  place  on  the  coach-roof  the  eager  young  fellow  looked  down 
upon  the  city,  with  the  sort  of  longing  desire  which  young 
soldiers  feel  on  the  eve  of  a  campaign. 

As  the}'  came  along  the  road,  Pen  had  formed  acquaintance 
with  a  cheery  fellow-passenger  in  a  shabb}'  cloak,  who  talked  a 
great  deal  about  men  of  letters  with  whom  he  was  very  famil- 
iar,  and  who  was,  in  fact,  the  reporter  of  a  London  news- 
paper, as  whose  representative  he  had  been  to  attend  a  great 
wrestling-match  in  the  west.  This  gentleman  knew  intimately, 
as  it  appeared,  all  the  leading  men  of  letters  of  his  day,  and 
talked  about  Tom  Campbell,  and  Tom  Hood,  and  Sydney 
Smith,  and  this  and  the  other,  as  if  he  had  been  their  most 
intimate  friend.  As  the}'  passed  b}'  Brompton,  this  gentleman 
pointed  out  to  Pen  Mr.  Hurtle,  the  reviewer,  walking  with  his 
umbrella.  Pen  craned  over  the  coach  to  have  a  long  look  at 
the  great  Hurtle.  He  was  a  Boniface  man,  said  Pen.  And 
Mr,  Doolan,  of  the  "Tom  and  Jerry"  newspaper  (for  such 
was  the  gentleman's  name  and  address  upon  the  card  which  he 
handed  to  Pen),  said  "  Faitli  he  was,  and  he  knew  him  very 
well."  Pen  thought  it  was  quite  an  honor  to  have  seen  the 
great  Mr.  Hurtle,  whose  works  he  admired.  He  believed 
fondly,  as  yet,  in  authors,  reviewers,  and  editors  of  news- 
papers. Even  Wagg,  whose  books  did  not  appear  to  him  to 
be  masterpieces  of  human  intellect,  he  yet  secretlj-  revered  as 
a  successful  writer.  He  mentioned  that  he  had  met  Wagg  in 
the  country,  and  Doolan  told  him  how  that  famous  novelist 
received  three  huudther  pounds  a  volume  for  every  one  of  liis 
novels.  Pen  began  to  calculate  instantly  whether  he  might 
not  make  five  thousand  a  year. 

The  very  first  acquaintance  of  his  own  whom  Arthur  met, 
as  the  coach  pulled  up  at  the  Gloster  Coffee  House,  was  his  old 
friend  Harry  Foker,  who  came  prancing  down  Arlington 
Street  behind  an  enormous  cab-horse.  He  had  white  kid 
gloves  and  white  reins,  and  nature  had  by  this  time  decorated 
him  with  a  considerable  tuft  on  the  chin.  A  very  small  cab- 
boy,  vice  Stoopid  retu-ed,  swung  on  behind  Foker's  vehicle ; 
knock-kneed  and  in  the  tightest  leather  breeches.  Foker 
looked  at  the  dusty  coach,  and  the  smoking  horses  of  the 
"Alacrity"  by  which  he  had  made  journe3-s  in  former  times. 
—  "What,  Foker!"  cried  out  Peudennis  —  "Hullo!  Pen, 
my  boy ! "  said  the  other,  and  he  wa^  ed  his  whip  by  way  of 


PENDENNIS.  283 

amity  and  salute  to  Arthur,  who  was  verj"  glad  to  see  his 
(fieer  friend's  kind  old  face.  Mr.  Doolan  had  a  great  respect 
for  Pen  who  had  an  acquaintance  in  such  a  grand  cab  ;  and  Pen 
was  greatl}'  excited  and  pleased  to  be  at  liberty'  and  in  Lon- 
don. Pie  asked  Doolan  to  come  and  dine  with  him  at  tlie 
Covent  Garden  Coffee  House,  where  he  put  up :  he  called  a 
cab  and  rattled  awaj-  thither  in  the  highest  spirits.  He  was 
glad  to  see  the  bustling  waiter  and  polite  bowing  landlord 
again  ;  and  asked  for  the  landlady,  and  missed  the  old  Boots, 
and  would  have  liked  to  shake  hands  with  cverybod}-.  He  had 
a  hundred  pounds  in  his  pocket.  He  (h-essed  himself  in  his 
very  best ;  dined  in  the  cotfee-room  with  a  modest  pint  of 
sherrj'  (for  he  was  determined  to  be  ver}-  economical),  and 
went  to  the  theatre  adjoining. 

The  lights  and  the  music,  the  crowd  and  the  ga3-et3',  charmed 
and  exhilarated  Pen,  as  those  sights  will  do  30ung  fellows  from 
college  and  the  countr}-,  to  whom  the}-  are  tolerably'  new.  He 
laughed  at  the  jokes ;  he  applauded  the  songs,  to  the  delight 
of  some  of  the  dreary  old  habitues  of  the  boxes,  who  had 
ceased  long  ago  to  find  the  least  excitement  in  their  place  of 
nightly  resort,  and  were  pleased  to  see  any  one  so  fresh,  and 
so  much  amused.  At  the  end  of  the  first  piece,  he  went  and 
strutted  about  the  lobbies  of  the  theatre,  as  if  he  was  in  a 
resort  of  the  highest  fashion.  "What  tired  frequenter  of  the 
London  pave  is  there  that  cannot  remember  having  had  similar 
earl}-  delusions,  and  would  not  call  them  back  again?  Here 
was  3'oung  Foker  again,  like  an  ardent  votaiy  of  pleasure  as 
he  was.  He  was  walking  with  Granby  Tiptoff,  of  the  House- 
hold Brigade,  Lord  Tiptoff's  brother,  and  Lord  Colchicum, 
Captain  Tiptotf's  uncle,  a  venerable  peer,  who  had  been  a  man 
of  pleasure  since  the  first  French  Revolution.  Foker  rushed 
upon  Pen  with  eagerness,  and  insisted  that  the  latter  should 
come  into  his  private  box,  where  a  lady  witli  the  longest  ring- 
lets, and  the  fairest  shoulders,  was  seated.  This  was  Miss 
Blenkinsop,  the  eminent  actress  of  high  comedy ;  and  in  the 
back  of  the  box  snoozing  in  a  wig,  sat  old  Blenkinsop,  her  papa. 
He  was  described  in  the  theatrical  prints  as  the  ' '  veteran  Blen- 
kinsop"—  "the  useful  Blenkinsop"  —  "that  old  favorite  of 
the  public,  Blenkinsop :  "  those  parts  in  the  drama,  which  are 
cJled  the  heav}-  fathers,  were  usually  assigned  to  this  veteran, 
who,  indeed,  acted  the  heav,y  father  in  public,  as  in  private  life. 

At  this  time,  it  being  about  eleven  o'clock,  Mrs.  Pendennis 
was  gone  to  bed  at  Fairoaks,  and  wondering  whether  her  dear- 
est Arthur  was  at  rest  after  his  journey.     At  this  time  Laura- 


284  TENDENNIS. 

too,  was  awake.  And  at  this  time  yesterday  uight,  as  the 
coach  rolled  over  silent  commons,  where  cottage  windows 
twinkled,  and  b}'  darkling  woods  under  calm  starlit  skies,  Pen 
was  vowing  to  reform  and  to  resist  temptation,  and  his  heart 

was  at  home Meanwhile  the  farce  was  going  on  veiy 

successfully,  and  Mrs.  Leary,  in  a  hussar  jacket  and  braided 
pantaloons,  was  enchanting  the  audience  with  her  archness,  her 
lovely  figure,  and  her  delightful  ballads. 

Pen,  being  new  to  the  town,  would  have  liked  to  listen  to 
Mrs.  Leary ;  but  the  other  people  in  the  box  did  not  care  about 
her  song  or  her  pantaloons,  and  kept  up  an  incessant  chatter- 
ing. Tiptoff  knew  where  her  maillots  came  from.  Colchicum 
saw  her  when  she  came  out  in  '14.  Miss  Blenkinsop  said  she 
sang  out  of  all  tune,  to  the  pain  and  astonishment  of  Pen,  who 
thought  that  she  was  as  beautiful  as  an  angel,  and  that  she 
sang  like  a  nightingale  ;  and  when  Hoppus  came  on  as  Sir  Har- 
court  Featherb}-,  the  young  man  of  the  piece,  the  gentlemen  in 
the  box  declared  that  Hoppus  was  getting  too  stale,  and  Tiptoff 
was  for  flinging  Miss  Blenkinsop's  bouquet  to  him. 

"  Not  for  the  world,"  cried  the  daughter  of  the  veteran  Blen- 
kinsop ;  "  Lord  Colchicum  gave  it  to  me." 

Pen  remembered  that  nobleman's  name,  and  with  a  bow  and 
a  blush  said  he  believed  he  had  to  thank  Lord  Colchicum  for 
having  proposed  him  at  the  Polyanthus  Club,  at  the  request  of 
his  uncle  Major  Pendennis. 

"What,  you're  Wigsby's  nephew,  are  you?"  said  the  peer 
"I   beg   }•  our   pardon,    we    always   call   him  Wigsby."      Pen 
blushed  to  hear  his  venerable  uncle  called  by  such  a  familiar 
name.     "  We  balloted  3'ou  in  last  week,  didn't  we?     Yes,  last 
Wednesday  night.     Your  uncle  wasn't  there." 

Here  was  delightful  news  for  Pen !  He  professed  himself 
ver}-  much  obliged  indeed  to  Lord  Colchicum,  and  made  him  a 
handsome  speech  of  thanks,  to  which  the  other  listened,  with 
his  double  opera-glass  up  to  his  eyes.  Pen  was  full  of  excite- 
ment at  the  idea  of  being  a  member  of  this  polite  Club. 

"Don't  be  always  looking  at  that  box,  3'ou  naughty  crea- 
ture," cried  Miss  Blenkinsop. 

"  She's  a  dev'Ush  fine  woman,  that  Mirabel,"  said  Tiptofl"; 
' '  though  Mirabel  was  a  d — d  fool  to  marry  her." 

"  A  stupid  old  spooney,"  said  the  peer. 

"  Mirabel !  "  cried  out  Pendennis. 

"Ha!  ha !"  laughed  out  Harry  Foker.  "We've  heard  0/ 
her  before,  haven't  we,  Pen?" 

It  was  Pen's  first  love.     It  was  Miss  Fotheringay.     The 


PENDENNIS.  285 

3ear  before  she  had  been  led  to  the  altar  b}'  Sir  Chai-les  Mira- 
bel, G.C.B.,  and  formerly  envo}-  to  the  Court  of  Pumpernickel, 
who  had  taken  so  active  a  part  in  the  negotiations  before  the 
Congress  of  Swammerdan,  and  signed,  on  behalf  of  H.  B.  M., 
the  Peace  of  Pnltusk. 

"  Emil}'  was  alwa3S  as  stupid  as  an  owl,"  said  Miss  Blen- 
kinsop. 

'•  Eh  !  Eh  !  pas  si  bete,"  the  old  peer  said. 

"  Oh,  for  shame  !  "  cried  the  actress,  who  did  not  in  the  least 
know  what  he  meant. 

And  Pen  looked  out  and  beheld  his  first  love  once  again  — 
and  wondered  how  he  ever  could  have  loved  her. 

Thus,  on  the  ver}-  first  night  of  his  arrival  in  London,  Mr. 
Arthur  Pendennis  found  himself  introduced  to  a  Club,  to  an 
actress  of  genteel  comedy  and  a  heavy  father  of  the  Stage,  and 
to  a  dashing  society  of  jovial  blades,  old  and  3'oung ;  for  my 
Lord  Colclncuiii,  though  stricken  in  jears,  bald  of  head,  and 
enfeebled  in  person,  was  still  indefatigable  in  the  pursuit  of 
enjoyment,  and  it  was  the  venerable  Viscount's  boast  that  he 
could  drink  as  much  claret  as  the  youngest  member  of  the  soci- 
et}'  which  he  frequented.  He  lived  with  the  youth  about  town  ; 
he  gave  them  countless  dinners  at  Richmond  and  Greenwich : 
an  enlightened  patron  of  the  drama  in  all  languages  and  of  the 
Terpsichorean  art,  he  received  dramatic  professors  of  all  na- 
tions at  his  banquets  —  English  from  the  Covent  Garden  and 
Strand  houses,  Italians  from  the  Haymarket,  French  from  their 
own  prett}-  little  theatre,  or  the  boards  of  the  Opera  where  the}' 
danced.  And  at  his  villa  on  the  Thames,  this  pillar  of  the 
State  gave  sumptuous  entertainments  to  scores  of  young  men  of 
fashion,  who  very  affably  consorted  with  the  ladies  and  gentle- 
men of  the  green-room  —  with  the  former  chiefly,  for  Viscount 
Colchicum  preferred  Lheir  society-  as  more  polished  and  gay 
than  that  of  their  male  brethren. 

Pen  went  the  next  da}-  and  paid  his  entrance  money  at  the 
Club,  which  operation  canned  off  exactly  one-third  of  his  hun- 
dred pounds  :  and  took  possession  of  the  edifice,  and  ate  his 
luncheon  there  with  immense  satisfaction.  He  plunged  into  an 
easy  chair  in  the  library,  and  tried  to  read  all  the  magazines. 
He  wondered  whether  the  members  were  looking  at  him,  and 
that  they  could  dare  to  keep  on  their  hats  in  such  fine  rooms. 
He  sat  down  and  wrote  a  letter  to  Fairoaks  on  the  Club  paper, 
and  said,  what  a  comfort  this  place  would  be  to  him  after  his 
da^■'s  work  was  over.     He  went  over  to  his  uncle's  lodginiis  in 


286  PENDENNIS. 

Bur}'  Street  with  some  considerable  tremor,  and  in  compliance 
with  his  motlier's  earnest  desu'e,  that  he  should  instantly  call 
on  Major  Pendennis  ;  and  was  not  a  little  relieved  to  find  that 
the  Major  had  not  yet  returned  to  town.  His  apartments 
were  blank.  Brown  Hollands  covered  his  librar3'-table,  and 
bills  and  letters  lay  on  the  mantel-piece,  grimly-  awaiting  the 
return  of  their  owner.  The  Major  was  on  the  continent,  the 
landlady-  of  the  house  said,  at  Badn-Badn,  with  the  Marcus  of 
Steyne.  Pen  left  his  card  upon  the  shelf  with  the  rest.  Fair- 
oaks  was  written  on  it  still.  When  the  Major  returned  to 
London,  which  he  did  in  time  for  the  fogs  of  November,  after 
enjoying  which  he  proposed  to  spend  Christmas  with  some 
friends  in  the  country,  he  found  another  card  of  Arthur's,  on 
which  Lamb  Court,  Temple,  was  engraved,  and  a  note  from 
that  3"oung  gentleman  and  from  his  mother,  stating  that  he  was 
come  to  town,  was  entered  a  member  of  the  Upper  Temple, 
and  was  reading  hard  for  the  bar. 

Lamb  Court,  Temple:  —  where  was  it?  Major  Pendennis 
remembered  that  some  ladies  of  fashion  used  to  talk  of  dining 
with  Mr.  Ayliffe,  the  barrister,  who  was  in  "  societ}',"  and 
who  lived  there  in  the  King's  Bench,  of  which  prison  there  was 
probabl}^  a  branch  in  the  Temple,  and  Ayliffe  was  very  likely 
an  officer.  Mr.  Deuceace,  Lord  Crabs's  son,  had  also  lived 
there,  he  recollected.  He  despatched  Morgan  to  find  out  where 
Lamb  Court  was,  and  to  report  upon  the  lodging  selected  by 
Mr.  Arthur.  That  alert  messenger  had  little  difficulty  in  dis- 
covering Mr.  Pen's  abode.  Discreet  Morgan  had  in  his  time 
traced  people  far  more  difficult  to  find  than  Arthur. 

"What  sort  of  a  place  is  it,  Morgan?"  asked  the  Major 
out  of  the  bed-curtains  in  Bury  Street  the  next  morning,  as  the 
valet  was  arranging  his  toilette  in  the  deep  ^'cllow  London  fog. 

"  I  should  say  rayther  a  shy  place,"  said  Mr.  Morgan. 
"The  lawj'ers  lives  there,  and  has  their  names  on  the  doors. 
[Mr.  Harthur  lives  three  pair  high,  sir.  Mr.  Warrington  lives 
there  too,  sir." 

"  Suffolk  Warringtons  !  I  shouldn't  wonder  :  a  good  fam- 
ily," thought  the  Major.  "The  cadets  of  many  of  our  good 
families  follow  the  robe  as  a  profession.  Comfortable  rooms, 
eh?" 

"  Honly  saw  the  outside  of  the  door,  sir,  with  Mr.  Warring- 
ton's name  and  Mr.  Arthur's  painted  up,  and  a  piece  of  paper 
with  *  Back  at  6  ; '  but  I  couldn't  see  no  servant,  sir." 

"  Economical  at  any  rate,"  said  the  Major. 

"  Ver3',   sir.      Three  pair,  sir.     Nast3'^  black  staircase  as 


PENDENNIS.  j!87 

ever  I  see.  Wonder  how  a  gentleman  can  live  in  such  a 
place." 

"  Pi'ayi,  who  taught  you  where  gentlemen  should  or  should 
not  live,  Morgan?  Mr.  ^Vrthur,  sir,  is  going  to  study  for  the 
bar,  sir ;  "  the  Major  said  with  dignity  ;  and  closed  the  conver- 
sation and  began  to  array  himself  in  the  yellow  log. 

'•'■  Boys  will  be  bo3's,"  the  molUfied  uncle  tlioughtto  himself. 
"  He  has  written  to  me  a  devilish  good  letter.  Colchicum  says 
he  has  had  him  to  dine,  and  thinks  him  a  gentlemanlike  lad. 
His  mother  is  one  of  the  best  creatures  in  the  world.  If  he  has 
sown  his  wild  oats  and  will  stick  to  his  business,  he  may  do 
well  3'et.  Think  of  Charley  Mirabel,  the  old  fool,  marrying 
that  flame  of  his  ;  that  Fotheringay  !  He  doesn't  like  to  come 
here  till  I  give  him  leave,  and  puts  it  in  a  very  manly  nice  way. 
I  was  deuced  angiy  with  him,  after  his  Oxbridge  escapades  — 
and  showed  it,  too,  when  he  w-as  here  before  —  Gad,  I'll  go  and 
see  him,  hang  me,  if  I  don't." 

And  having  ascertained  from  Morgan  that  he  could  reach 
the  Temple  without  much  difficulty,  and  that  a  city  omnibus 
would  put  him  down  at  the  gate,  the  Major  one  day  after  break- 
fast at  his  Club  —  not  the  Polyanthus,  whereof  Mr.  Pen  was 
just  elected  a  member,  but  another  Club :  for  the  Major  was  too 
wise  to  have  a  nephew  as  a  constant  inmate  of  any  house  where 
he  was  in  the  habit  of  passing  his  time  —  the  INIajor  one  day 
entered  one  of  those  public  vehicles,  and  bade  the  conductor  to 
put  him  down  at  the  gate  of  the  Upper  Temple. 

When  Major  Pendennis  reached  that  dingy  portal  it  was 
about  twehe  o'clock  in  the  day  ;  and  he  was  directed  by  a  civil 
personage  with  a  badge  and  a  white  apron,  through  some  dark 
alleys,  and  undei*  various  melancholy  archwaj's  into  courts  each 
more  dismal  than  the  other,  until  finally  he  reached  Lamb  Court. 
If  it  was  dark  in  Pall  Mall,  what  was  it  in  Lamb  Court?  Can- 
dles were  burning  in  many  of  the  rooms  there  —  in  the  pupil- 
room  of  Mr.  Hoclgeman,  the  special  pleader,  whose  six  pupils 
were  scribbling  declarations  under  the  tallow ;  in  Sir  Hokey 
Walker's  clerk's  room,  where  the  clerk,  a  person  far  more 
gentlemanlike  and  cheerful  in  appearance  than  the  celebrated 
counsel,  his  master,  was  conversing  in  a  patronizing  maimer 
with  the  managing  clerk  of  an  attorne}-  at  the  door ;  and  in 
Curling,  the  wigmaker's  melancholy  shop,  where,  from  behind 
the  feeble  glimmer  of  a  couple  of  lights,  large  Serjeants'  and 
judges'  wigs  were  looming  drearily-,  with  the  blank  blocks  look- 
ing at  the  lami)-post  in  the  court.  Two  little  clerks  were 
leaving  at  toss-h»lfpenny  under  that  lamp.     A  laundress  in 


288  PENDENNIS. 

pattens  passed  in  at  one  door,  a  newspaper  boj  issued  from 
anotlier.  A  porter,  whose  white  apron  was  faintly  visible^ 
paced  up  and  down.  It  would  be  impossible  to  conceive  a 
place  more  dismal,  and  the  Major  shuddered  to  think  that  any 
one  should  select  such  a  residence.  "Good  Ged ! "  he  said, 
"  the  poor  boy  mustn't  live  on  here." 

The  feeble  and  filthy  oil-lamps,  with  which  the  staircases  of 
the  Upper  Temple  are  lighted  of  nights,  were  of  course  not 
illuminating  the  stairs  b}^  da}-,  and  Major  Pendennis,  having 
read  with  difficulty  his  nephew's  name  under  Mr.  Warrington's 
on  the  wall  of  No.  6,  found  still  greater  difficulty  in  climbing 
the  abominable  black  stairs,  up  the  banisters  of  which,  which 
contributed  their  damp  exudations  to  his  gloves,  he  groped 
painfull}'  until  he  came  to  the  third  stor}-.  A  candle  was  in 
the  passage  of  one  of  the  two  sets  of  rooms  ;  the  doors  were 
open,  and  the  names  of  Mr.  Warrington  and  Mr.  A.  Penden- 
nis were  very  clearl}^  visible  to  the  Major  as  he  went  in.  An 
Irish  charwoman,  with  a  pail  and  broom,  opened  the  door  for 
the  Major. 

"  Is  that  the  beer?"  cried  out  a  great  voice  :  "  give  us  hold 
of  it." 

The  gentleman  who  was  speaking  was  seated  on  a  table, 
unshorn  and  smoking  a  short  pipe  ;  in  a  farther  chair  sat  Pen, 
with  a  cigar,  and  his  legs  near  the  fire.  A  little  boy,  who 
acted  as  the  clerk  of  these  gentlemen,  was  grinning  in  the 
Major's  face,  at  the  idea  of  his  being  mistaken  for  beer.  Here, 
upon  the  third  floor,  the  rooms  were  somewhat  lighter,  and  the 
Major  could  see  the  place. 

"  Pen,  my  bo}',  it's  I  —  it's  3-our  uncle,"  he  said,  choking  with 
the  smoke.  But  as  most  young  men  of  fashion  used  the  weed, 
he  pardoned  the  practice  easilj-  enough. 

Mr.  Warrington  got  up  from  the  table,  and  Pen,  in  a  very 
perturbed  manner,  from  his  chair.  ' '  Beg  your  pardon  for  mis- 
taking you,"  said  Warrington,  in  a  frank,  loud  voice.  "  Will  you 
take  a  cigar,  sir?  Clear  those  things  off  the  chair,  Pidgeon, 
and  pull  it  round  to  the  fire." 

Pen  flung  his  cigar  into  the  grate  ;  and  was  pleased  with 
the  cordialit}'  with  which  his  uncle  shook  him  b}^  the  hand. 
As  soon  as  he  could  speak  for  the  stairs  and  the  smoke,  the 
Major  began  to  ask  Pen  ver^'  kindly  about  himself  and  about 
his  mother ;  for  blood  is  blood,  and  he  was  pleased  once  more 
to  see  the  boy. 

Pen  gave  his  news,  and  then  introduced  Mr.  Warrington  -^ 
an  old  Boniface  man  —  whose  chambers  he  shared. 


PENDENNIS.  289 

The  Major  was  quite  satisfied  when  he  heard  that  Mr.  War- 
rington was  a  younger  son  of  Sir  INliles  "Warrington  of  Suffolk. 
He  had  served  with  an  uncle  of  his  in  India  and  in  New  South 
Wales,  jears  ago. 

'•Took  a  sheep-farm  there,  sir,  made  a  fortune  —  better 
thing  than  law  or  soldiering,"  Warrington  said.  "Think  I 
shall  go  there,  too."  And  here,  the  expected  beer  coming  in, 
in  a  tankard  with  a  glass  bottom,  Mr.  Warrington,  with  a 
laugh,  said  he  supposed  the  Major  would  not  have  an}-,  and 
took  a  long,  deep  draught  himself,  after  which  he  wiped  his 
wrist  across  his  beard  with  great  satisfaction.  The  3'oung  man 
was  perfectl}'  easy  and  unembarrassed.  He  was  dressed  in  a 
ragged  old  shooting-jacket,  and  had  a  bristly  blue  beard.  He 
was  drinking  beer  like  a  coal-heaver,  and  3'et  j^ou  couldn't  bui 
perceive  that  he  was  a  gentleman. 

When  he  had  sat  for  a  minute  or  two  after  his  draught,  he 
went  out  of  the  room,  leaving  it  to  Pen  and  his  uncle,  that  they 
might  talk  over  family'  affairs  were  the}*  so  inclined. 

"Rough  and  ready  your  chum  seems,"  the  Major  said. 
"  Somewhat  different  from  jour  dandy  friends  at  Oxbridge." 

"  Times  are  altered,"  Arthur  replied,  with  a  blush.  "  War- 
rington is  only  just  called,  and  has  no  business,  but  he  knows 
law  pretty  well ;  and  until  I  can  afford  to  read  with  a  pleader,  I 
use  his  books  and  get  his  help." 

"  Is  that  one  of  the  books?  "  the  Major  asked,  with  a  smile. 
A  French  novel  was  lying  at  the  foot  of  Pen's  chau'. 

"  This  is  not  a  working  day,  sir,"  the  lad  said.  "  We  were 
out  very  late  at  a  part}'  last  night  —  at  Lady  Whiston's,"  Pen 
added,  knowing  his  uncle's  weakness.  "  Everj'bod}^  in  town 
was  there  except  you,  sir ;  Counts,  Ambassadors,  Turks,  Stars 
and  Garters  —  I  don't  know  who  —  it's  all  in  the  paper,  and  my 
name,  too,"  said  Pen,  with  great  glee.  "  I  met  an  old  flame  of 
mine  there,  sir,"  he  added,  with  a  laugh.  "  You  know  whom 
I  mean,  sir,  —  Lady  Mirabel,  to  whom  I  was  introduced  over 
again.  She  shook  hands,  and  was  gracious  enough.  I  may 
thank  you  for  being  out  of  that  scrape,  sir.  She  presented  rae 
to  the  husband,  too,  an  old  beau  in  a  star  and  a  blond  wig.  He 
does  not  seem  ver}'^  wise.  She  has  asked  me  to  call  on  her,  sir : 
and  I  may  go  now  without  any  fear  of  losing  my  heart." 

"  What,  we  have  had  some  new  loves,  have  we?"  the  Major 
asked,  in  high  good-humor. 

"Some  two  or  three,"  Mr.  Pen  said,  laughing.  "But  I 
don't  put  on  my  grand  serieux  any  more,  sir.  That  goes  off 
»fter  the  first  flurne." 

10 


290  PENDENNIS. 

"  Very  right,  my  dear  boy.  Flames  and  darts  and  passion, 
and  that  sort  of  thing,  do  very  well  for  a  lad :  and  you  were 
but  a  lad  when  that  affair  with  the  Fotheringill  —  Fotheringay  — 
(what's  her  name  ?)  came  ofl".  But  a  man  of  the  world  gives 
up  those  follies.  You  still  may  do  very  well.  You  have  been 
hit,  but  you  may  recover.  You  are  heir  to  a  little  independence, 
which  everybody  fancies  is  a  doosid  deal  more.  You  have  a 
good  name,  good  wits,  good  manners,  and  a  good  person  — ' 
and,  begad !  I  don't  see  why  you  shouldn't  mai-ry  a  woman 
with  money  —  get  into  Parliament  —  distinguish  yourself,  and 
—  and,  in  fact,  that  sort  of  thing.  Remember,  it's  as  eas}^  to 
marry  a  rich  woman  as  a  poor  woman :  and  a  devilish  deal 
pleasanter  to  sit  down  to  a  good  dinner  than  to  a  scrag  of  mut- 
ton in  lodgings.  Make  up  your  mind  to  that.  A  woman  with 
a  good  jointure  is  a  doosid  deal  easier  a  profession  than  the 
law,  let  me  tell  you.  Look  out ;  /  shall  be  on  the  watch  for 
you  :  and  I  shall  die  content,  my  boy,  if  I  can  see  3'ou  with  a 
good  lady-like  wife,  and  a  good  carriage,  and  a  good  pair  of 
horses,  living  in  societ^y,  and  seeing  your  friends,  like  a  gentle- 
man." It  was  thus  this  affectionate  uncle  spoke,  and  ex- 
pounded to  Pen  his  simple  philosophy. 

"  What  would  my  mother  and  Laura  sa}-  to  this,  I  wonder?  " 
thought  the  lad.  Indeed,  old  Pendennis's  morals  were  not  their 
morals,  nor  was  his  wisdom  theirs. 

This  affecting  conversation  lietween  uncle  and  nephew  had 
scarceh'  concluded,  when  Warrington  came  out  of  his  bedroom, 
no  longer  in  rags,  but  dressed  like  a  gentleman,  straight  and 
tall,  and  perfectly  frank  and  good-humored.  He  did  the  hon- 
ors of  his  ragged  sitting-room  with  as  much  ease  as  if  it  had 
been  the  finest  apartment  in  London.  And  queer  rooms  the}' 
were  in  which  the  Major  found  his  nephew.  The  carpet  was 
full  of  holes  — the  table  stained  with  many  circles  of  Warring- 
ton's previous  ale-pots.  There  was  a  small  library  of  law- 
books, books  of  poetry,  and  of  mathematics,  of  which  he  was 
very  fond.  (He  had  been  one  of  the  hardest  livers  and  hardest 
readers  of  his  time  at  Oxbridge,  where  the  name  of  Stunning 
Warrington  was  3'et  famous  for  beating  bargemen,  puUing 
matches,  winning  prizes,  and  drinking  milk-punch.)  A  print 
of  the  old  college  hung  up  over  the  mantel-piece,  and  some  bat- 
tered volumes  of  Plato,  bearing  its  well-known  arms,  were  on 
the  book-shelves.  There  were  two  easy  chairs  ;  a  standing 
reading-desk  piled  with  bills ;  a  couple  of  very  meagre  briefs 
on  a  broken-legged  study-table.  Indeed,  there  was  scarceh' 
an}'  article  of  furniture  that  had  not  been  in  the  wars,  and  was 


PENDENNIS.  291 

not  wouiided.  "  Look  here,  sir,  here  is  Pen's  room.  He  is  a 
dandy,  and  has  got  curtains  to  his  bed.  and  wears  shiuj'  boots, 
and  has  a  silver  dressing-case."  Indeed,  Pen's  room  was  rather 
coquettish!}'  arranged,  and  a  couple  of  neat  prints  of  opera- 
dancers,  besides  a  drawing  of  Fairoaks.  hung  on  the  walls.  In 
Warrington's  room  there  was  scarceh'  any  article  of  furniture, 
save  a  great  shower-bath,  and  a  heap  of  books  by  the  bedside  ; 
where  he  lay  upon  straw  like  Marge r}-  Daw,  and  smoked  his 
pipe,  and  read  half  through  the  night  his  favorite  poetry  or 
mathematics. 

When  he  had  completed  his  simple  toilette,  Mr.  Warrington 
came  out  of  this  room,  and  proceeded  to  the  cupboard  to  search 
for  his  breakfast. 

"  Might  I  otfer  you  a  mutton-chop,  sir?  We  cook  'em  our- 
selves, hot  and  hot ;  and  I  am  teaching  Pen  the  first  principles 
of  law,  cooking,  and  moralit}'  at  the  same  time.  He's  a  lazy 
beggar,  sir,  and  too  much  of  a  dandy." 

And  so  saying,  Mr.  Warrington  wiped  a  gi'idiron  with  a  piece 
of  paper,  put  it  on  the  fire,  and  on  it  two  mutton-chops,  and 
took  from  the  cupboard  a  couple  of  plates,  and  some  knives 
and  silver  forks,  and  castors. 

''Say  but  a  word.  Major  Pendennis,"  he  said;  "there's 
another  chop  in  the  cupboard,  or  Pidgeon  shall  go  out  and  get 
3-ou  anything  you  like." 

Major  Pendennis  sat  in  wonder  and  amusement,  but  he  said 
he  had  just  breakfasted,  and  wouldn't  have  an}'  lunch.  So 
Warrington  cooked  the  chops,  and  popped  them  hissing  hot 
upon  the  plates. 

Pen  fell  to  at  his  chop  with  a  good  appetite,  after  looking  up 
at  his  uncle,  and  seeing  that  gentleman  was  still  in  good-humor. 

"You  see,  sir,"  Warrington  said,  '"Mrs.  Flanaghan  isn't 
here  to  do  'em,  and  we  can't  employ  the  bo}',  for  the  little  beg- 
gar is  all  day  occupied  cleaning  Pen's  boots.  And  now  for 
another  swig  at  the  beer.  Pen  drinks  tea  ;  it's  only  fit  for  old 
women."  I 

"  And  so  you  were  at  Lady  AVhiston's  last  night,"  the  Major 
said,  not  in  truth  knowing  what  observation  to  make  to  this 
rough  diamond. 

• '  I  at  Lad}'  Whiston's  1  not  such  a  flat,  sir.  I  don't  care 
for  female  societ}'.  In  fact  it  bores  me.  I  spent  ray  evening 
philosophically  at  the  Back  Kitchen." 

"The  Back  Kitchen?  indeed  I  "  said  the  Major. 

"  I  see  you  don't  know  what  it  means,"  Warrington  said. 
"  Ask  Pen.     He  was  there  after  Lady  Whiston's.     Tell  Major 


292  PENDENNIS. 

Pendennis  about  the  Back  Kitchen,  Pen  —  don't  be  ashamed 
or  yourself." 

So  Pen  said  it  was  a  little  eccentric  society  of  men  of  letters 
and  men  about  town,  to  which  he  had  been  presented ;  and  the 
Major  began  to  think  that  the  3'oung  fellow  had  seen  a  good 
cteal  of  the  world  since  his  arrival  in  London. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

THE   KNIGHTS    OF   THE   TEMPLE. 

Colleges,  schools,  and  inns  of  court,  still  have  some  respect 
fyjT  antiquit}^,  and  maintain  a  great  number  of  the  customs  and 
institutions  of  our  ancestors,  with  which  those  persons  who 
do  not  particularly  regard  their  forefathers,  or  perhaps  are  not 
very  well  acquainted  with  them,  have  long  since  done  away. 
A-  well-ordained  workhouse  or  prison  is  much  better  provided 
with  the  appliances  of  health,  comfort,  and  cleanliness,  than 
a  respectable  Foundation  School,  a  venerable  College,  or  a 
learned  Inn.  In  the  latter  place  of  residence  men  are  con- 
tented to  sleep  in  dingy  closets,  and  to  pay  for  the  sitting-room 
and  the  cupboard,  which  is  their  dormitor}',  the  price  of  a  good 
villa  and  garden  in  the  suburbs,  or  of  a  roomy  house  in  the  neg- 
lected squares  of  the  town.  The  poorest  mechanic  in  Spitalfields 
has  a  cistern  and  an  unbounded  supply  of  water  at  his  command  ; 
but  the  gentlemen  of  the  inns  of  court,  and  the  gentlemen  of  the 
universities,  have  their  supply  of  this  cosmetic  fetched  in  jugs 
by  laundresses  and  bedmakers,  and  live  in  abodes  which  were 
erected  long  before  the  custom  of  cleanliness  and  decency  ob- 
tained among  us.  There  are  individuals  still  alive  who  sneer  at 
the  people,  and  speak  of  them  with  epithets  of  scorn.  Gentle- 
men, there  can  be  but  little  doubt  that  your  ancestors  were  the 
Great  Unwashed :  and  in  the  Temple  especiall}-,  it  is  pretty 
certain,  that  only  under  the  greatest  difficulties  and  restrictions, 
the  virtue  which  has  been  pronounced  to  be  next  to  godliness 
could  have  been  practised  at  all. 

Old  Grump,  of  the  Norfolk  Circuit,  who  had  lived  for  more 
than  thirty  years  in  the  chambers  under  those  occupied  by 
Warrington  and  Pendennis,  and  who  used  to  be  awakened 
b}'  the  roaring  of  the  shower-baths  which  those  gentlemen  had 
erected  in  their  apartments, — part  of  the  cx)ntents  of  which 


PENDENNIS.  293 

occasionally  trickled  through  the  roof  into  Mr.  Grump's  room, 
—  declared  that  the  practice  was  an  absurd,  newfangled,  dandi- 
fied folly,  and  dail}'  ciu'sed  the  laundress  who  slopped  the  stair- 
case by  which  he  had  to  pass.  Gruiup,  now  much  more  than 
half  a  century  old,  had  indeed  never  used  the  luxur}^  in  ques- 
tion. He  had  done  without  water  very  weU,  and  so  had  our 
fathers  before  him.  Of  all  those  knights  and  baronets,  lords 
and  gentlemen,  bearing  arms,  whose  escutcheons  are  painted 
upon  the  walls  of  the  famous  hall  of  the  Upper  Temple,  was 
there  no  philanthropist  good-natured  enough  to  devise  a  set  of 
Hummums  for  the  benefit  of  the  lawyers,  his  fellows  and  suc- 
cessors? The  Temple  historian  makes  no  mention  of  such  a 
scheme.  There  is  Pump  Court  and  Fountain  Court,  with  their 
hydrauUc  apparatus,  but  one  never  heard  of  a  bencher  disport- 
ing in  the  fountain  ;  and  can't  but  think  how  many  a  coun- 
sel learned  in  the  law  of  old  da3s  might  have  benefited  by  the 
pump. 

Nevertheless,  those  venerable  Inns  which  have  the  Lamb 
and  Flag  and  the  Winged  Horse  for  their  ensigns,  have  attrac- 
tions for  persons  who  inhabit  them,  and  a  share  of  rough  com- 
forts and  freedom,  which  men  always  remember  witli  pleasure. 
1  don't  know  whether  the  student  of  law  permits  himself  the 
refreshment  of  enthusiasm,  or  indulges  in  poetical  reminiscences 
as  he  passes  b}-  historical  chambers,  and  says,  "  Yonder  Eldon 
lived  —  upon  this  site  Coke  mused  upon  Lyttleton  —  here 
Chitty  toiled  —  here  Barnwell  and  Alderson  joined  in  their 
famous  labors  —  here  B^'les  composed  his  great  work  upon  bills, 
and  Smith  compiled  his  immortal  leading  cases  —  here  Gusta- 
vus  still  toils,  with  Solomon  to  aid  him  :  "  but  the  man  of  letters 
can't  but  love  the  place  which  has  been  inhabited  b}'  so  man}- 
of  his  brethren,  or  peopled  by  their  creations  as  real  to  us  at 
this  day  as  the  authors  whose  children  they  were  —  and  Sir 
Roger  de  Coverley  walking  in  the  Temple  Garden,  and  dis- 
coursing with  Mr.  Spectator  about  the  beauties  in  hoops  and 
patches  who  are  sauntering  over  the  grass,  is  just  as  lively  a 
figure  to  me  as  old  Samuel  Johnson  rolhng  tbu'ough  the  fog  with 
the  Scotch  gentleman  at  his  heels  on  their  wa}'  to  Dr.  Gold- 
smith's chambers  in  Brick  Court ;  or  Harry  Fielding,  with 
inked  ruffles  and  a  wet  towel  round  his  head,  dashing  oft 
articles  at  midnight  for  the  Covent  Garden  Joui'nal,  while  the 
printer's  boy  is  asleep  in  the  passage. 

If  we  could  but  get  the  history  of  a  single  day  as  it  passed 
in  anyone  of  those  four-storied  houses  in  the  dingy  court  where 
our  friends  Pen  and  Warrington  dwelt,  some  Temple  Asmo- 


294  PENDENNIS. 

deus  might  furnish  us  with  :i  queer  vokime.  There  may  be  a 
great  parliamentary  counsel  on  the  grouud-iloor,  v/ho  drives  off 
to  Belgravia  at  dinner-time,  when  his  clerk,  too,  becomes  a 
gentleman,  and  goes  away  to  entertain  his  friends,  and  to  take 
his  pleasure.  But  a  short  time  since  he  was  hungiy  and  brief- 
less in  some  garret  of  the  Inn  ;  lived  by  stealthy  literature  ; 
.hoped,  and  waited,  and  sickened,  and  no  clients  came;  ex- 
hausted his  own  means  and  his  friends'  kindness  ;  had  to  remon- 
strate humbly  with  duns,  and  to  implore  the  patience  of  poor 
creditors.  Ruin  seemed  to  be  staring  him  in  the  face,  when, 
behold,  a  turn  of  the  wheel  of  fortune,  and  the  lucky  wretch 
in  possession  of  one  of  those  prodigious  prizes  which  are  some- 
times drawn  in  the  great  lottery  of  the  Bar.  Many  a  better 
lawyer  than  himself  does  not  make  a  fifth  part  of  the  income  of 
his  clerk,  who,  a  few  months  since,  could  scarcely  get  credit  for 
blacking  for  his  master's  unpaid  boots.  On  the  first  floor,  per- 
haps, 3^ou  will  have  a  venerable  man  whose  name  is  famous, 
who  has  lived  for  half  a  century  in  the  Inn,  whose  brains  are 
full  of  books,  and  whose  shelves  are  stored  with  classical  and 
legal  lore.  He  has  lived  alone  all  these  fifty  years,  alone  and 
for  himself,  amassing  learning,  and  compiling  a  fortune.  He 
comes  home  now  at  night  onh^  from  the  club,  where  he  has  been 
dining  freel}',  to  the  lonel}^  chambers  where  he  lives  a  godless 
old  recluse.  When  he  dies,  his  Inn  will  erect  a  tablet  to  his 
honor,  and  his  heirs  burn  a  part  of  his  library.  Would  30U 
like  to  have  such  a  prospect  for  your  old  age,  to  store  up  learn- 
ing and  money,  and  end  so  ?  But  we  must  not  linger  too  long 
Dy  Dr.  Doomsday's  door.  Worthv  Mr.  Grump  lives  over  him, 
who  is  also  an  ancient  Inhabitant  of  the  Inn,  and  who,  when 
Doomsda}'  comes  home  to  read  Catullus,  is  sitting  down  with 
three  steady  seniors  of  his  standing,  to  a  steady  rubber  at 
whist,  after  a  dinner  at  which  they  have  consumed  their  three 
steady  bottles  of  port.  You  may  see  the  old  boys  asleep  at  the 
Temple  church  of  a  Sunday.  Attorneys  seldom  trouble  them, 
and  the}'  have  small  fortunes  of  their  own.  On  the  other  side 
of  the  third  landing,  where  Pen  and  Warrington  live,  till  long 
after  midnight,  sits  Mr.  Paley,  who  took  the  highest  honors, 
and  who  is  a  fellow  of  his  college,  who  will  sit  and  read  and 
note  cases  until  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  ;  who  will  rise  at 
seven  and  be  at  the  pleader's  chambers  as  soon  as  they  are  open, 
where  he  will  work  until  an  hour  before  dinner-time  ;  who  will 
come  home  from  Hall  and  read  and  note  cases  again  till  dawn 
next  day,  when  perhaps  Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis  and  his  friend 
Mr.  Warrington  are  returning  from  some  of  their  wild  expedi- 


PENDENNIS.  295 

tions.  How  differently  emploj-ed  Mr.  Pale}'  has  been  !  He  has 
not  been  thro-wing  himself  awa}- :  he  has  only  been  bringing  a 
great  intellect  laboriously  down  to  the  comprehension  of  a  mean 
subject,  and  in  his  fierce  grasp  of  that,  resolntel^'  excluding 
from  his  mind  all  higher  thoughts,  all  better  things,  all  the  wis- 
dom of  philosophers  and  historians,  all  the  thoughts  of  poets ; 
all  wit,  fanc}',  reflection,  art,  love,  truth  altogether  —  so  that 
he  may  master  that  enormous  legend  of  the  law.  which  ho  pro- 
poses to  gain  his  livelihood  by  expounding.  Warrington  and 
Paley  had  been  competitors  for  universit}-  honors  in  former 
days,  and  had  run  each  other  hard  ;  and  everybody  said  now  that 
the  former  was  wasting  his  time  and  energies,  whilst  all  people 
praised  Paley  for  his  industr}-.  There  may  be  doubts,  however, 
as  to  which  was  using  his  time  best.  The  one  could  afford 
time  to  think,  and  the  other  never  could.  The  one  could  have 
svmpathies  and  do  kindnesses  ;  and  the  other  must  needs  be  al- 
wa3S  selfish.  He  could  not  cultivate  a  friendship  or  do  a  charitj'', 
or  admire  a  work  of  genius,  or  kindle  at  the  sight  of  beaut}'  or 
the  sound  of  a  sweet  song  —  he  had  no  time,  and  no  eyes  for 
anything  but  his  law-books.  All  was  dark  outside  his  reading- 
lamp.  Love,  and  Nature,  and  Art  (which  is  the  expression 
of  our  praise  and  sense  of  the  beautiful  world  of  God)  were 
shut  out  from  him.  And  as  he  turned  off  his  lonely  lamp  at 
night,  he  never  thought  but  that  he  had  spent  the'day  profitabl}', 
and  went  to  sleep  alike  thankless  and  remorseless.  But  he 
shuddered  when  he  met  his  old  companion  Warrington  on  the 
stairs,  and  shunned  him  as  one  that  was  doomed  to  perdi- 
tion. 

It  ma}'  have  been  the  sight  of  that  cadaverous  ambition  and 
self-complacent  meanness,  which  showed  itself  in  Paley's  yellow 
face,  and  twinkled  in  his  narrow  eyes,  or  it  may  have  been  a 
natural  appetite  for  pleasure  and  joviality,  of  which  it  must  be 
'confessed  Mr.  Pen  was  exceedingly  fond,  which  deten-ed  that 
luckless  youth  from  pursuing  his  designs  upon  the  Bench  or 
the  Woolsack  with  the  ardor,  or  rather  steadiness,  which  is 
requisite  in  gentlemen  who  would  climb  to  tuose  seats  of  honor. 
He  enjoyed  the  Temple  life  with  a  great  deal  of  relish :  his 
worthy  relatives  thought  he  was  residing  as  became  a  regular 
student :  and  his  uncle  wrote  home  congratulatory  letters  to 
the  kind  widow  at  Fairoaks,  announcing  that  the  lad  liad  sown 
his  wild  oats,  and  v,'as  becoming  quite  steady.  The  truth  is, 
that  it  was  a  new  sort  of  excitement  to  Pen  the  life  in  which  he 
was  now  engaged,  and  having  given  up  some  of  the  dandified 
pretensions,  and  flne-gentleman  airs  which  he  had  contracted 


2^6  PENDENNIS. 

among  his  aristocratic  college  acquaintances,  of  whom  he  now 
saw  but  little,  the  rough  pleasures  and  amusements  of  a  London 
bachelor  were  ver}'  novel  and  agreeable  to  him,  and  he  enjoyed 
them  all.  Time  was  he  would  have  envied  the  dandies  their 
fine  horses  in  Rotten  Row,  but  he  was  contented  now  to  walk 
in  the  Park  and  look  at  them.  He  was  too  3'oung  to  succeed 
in  London  society  without  a  better  name  and  a  larger  fortune 
than  he  had,  and  too  lazy  to  get  on  without  these  adjuncts. 
Old  Pendennis  fondly  thought  he  was  busied  with  law  because 
he  neglected  the  social  advantages  presented  to  him,  and,  hav- 
ing been  at  half  a  dozen  balls  and  evening  parties,  retreated 
before  their  dulness  and  sameness ;  and  whenever  anybody 
made  inquiries  of  the  worth}-  Major  about  his  nephew,  the  old 
gentleman  said  the  young  rascal  was  reformed,  and  could  not 
be  got  away  from  his  books.  But  the  Major  would  have  been 
almost  as  much  horrified  as  Mr.  Pale}'  was,  had  he  known  what 
was  Mr.  Pen's  real  course  of  life,  and  how  much  pleasure  en- 
tered into  his  law  studies. 

A  long  morning's  reading,  a  walk  in  the  Park,  a  pull  on  the 
river,  a  stretch  up  the  hill  to  Hampstead,  and  a  modest  tavern 
dinner ;  a  bachelor  night  passed  here  or  there,  in  jovialit}-,  not 
vice  (for  Arthur  Pendennis  admired  women  so  heartily  that  he 
could  never  bear  the  society  of  any  of  them  that  were  not,  in 
his  fanc}'  at  least,  good  and  pure) ;  a  quiet  evening  at  home, 
alone  with  a  friend  and  a  pipe  or  two,  and  a  humble  potation 
of  British  spirits,  whereof  Mrs.  Flanagan,  the  laundress,  in- 
variabl}-  tested  the  quality  ;  —  these  were  our  3'oung  gentleman's 
pursuits,  and  it  must  be  owned  that  his  fife  was  not  unpleasant. 
In  term-time,  Mr.  Pen  showed  a  most  praiseworthy  regularit}^ 
in  performing  one  part  of  the  law-student's  course  of  duty,  and 
eating  his  dinners  in  Hall.  Indeed,  that  Hall  of  the  Upper 
Temple  is  a  sight  not  uninteresting,  and  with  the  exception  of 
some  trifling  improvements  and  anachronisms  which  have  been 
introduced  into  the  practice  there,  a  man  may  sit  down  and 
fancy  that  he  joins  in  a  meal  of  the  seventeenth  centur}-.  The 
bar  have  their  messes,  the  students  their  tables  apart ;  the 
benchers  sit  at  the  high  table  on  the  raised  platform,  surrounded 
by  pictures  of  judges  of  the  law  and  portraits  of  royal  person- 
ages who  have  honored  its  festivities  with  their  presence  and 
patronage.  Pen  looked  about,  on  his  first  introduction,  not  a 
little  amused  with  the  scene  which  he  witnessed.  Among  his 
comrades  of  the  student  class  there  were  gentlemen  of  all  ages, 
from  sixty  to  seventeen ;  stout  gra}'-headed  attorneys  who  were 
proceeding  to  take  the  superior  dignity,  —  dandies  and  men- 


PENDENNIS.  29 


about-town  who  wished  for  some  reason  to  be  barristers  of 
seven  years'  standing  —  swarth}-,  black-eyed  natives  of  the 
Colonies,  who  came  to  be  called  here  before  they  practised  in 
their  own  islands,  —  and  many  gentlemen  of  the  Irish  nation, 
who  make  a  sojomni  in  Middle  Temple  Lane  before  they  return 
to  the  green  countr}-  of  their  birth.  There  were  little  squads 
of  reading  students  who  talked  law  all  dinner-time  ;  there  were 
rowing  men,  whose  discourse  was  of  sculling  matches,  the  Red 
House,  Vauxhall,  and  the  Opera  ;  there  were  others  great  in 
politics,  and  orators  of  the  students'  debating  clubs  ;  with  all 
of  which  sets,  except  the  first,  whose  talk  was  an  almost  unknown 
and  a  quite  uninteresting  language  to  him,  Mr.  Pen  made  a 
gradual  acquaintance,  and  had  many  points  of  sympathy. 

The  ancient  and  liberal  Inn  of  the  Upper  Temple  provides 
in  its  Hall,  and  for  a  most  moderate  price,  an  excellent  whole- 
some dinner  of  soup,  meat,  tarts,  and  port  wine  or  sherry,  for 
the  barristers  and  students  who  attend  that  place  of  refection. 
The  parties  are  arranged  in  messes  of  four,  each  of  which  quar- 
tets has  its  piece  of  beef  or  leg  of  mutton,  its  sufficient  apple- 
pie  and  its  bottle  of  wine.  But  the  honest  habitues  of  the  Hall, 
amongst  the  lower  rank  of  students,  who  have  a  taste  for  good 
living,  have  man}-  harmless  arts  by  which  they  improve  their 
banquet,  and  innocent  "dodges"  (if  we  may  be  permitted  to 
use  an  excellent  phrase  that  has  become  vernacular  since  the 
appearance  of  the  last  dictionaries)  by  which  they  strive  to 
attain  for  themselves  more  delicate  food  than  the  common 
ever3--da3'  roast  meat  of  the  students'  tables. 

"  Wait  a  bit,"  said  Mr.  Lowton,  one  of  these  Temple  gour- 
mands. "Wait  a  bit,"  said  Mr.  Lowton,  tugging  at  Pen's 
gown  —  "the  tables  are  ver}-  full,  and  there's  only  three 
benchers  to  eat  ten  side  dishes  —  if  we  wait,  perhaps  we  shall 
get  something  from  their  table."  And  Pen  looked  with  some 
amusement,  as  did  Mr.  Lowton  with  e^-es  of  fond  desire, 
towards  the  benchers'  high  table,  where  three  old  gentlemen 
were  standing  up  before  a  dozen  silver  dish-covers,  while  the 
clerk  was  quavering  out  a  grace. 

Lowton  was  great  in  the  conduct  of  the  dinner.  His  aim 
was  to  manage  so  as  to  be  the  first,  or  captain  of  the  mess, 
and  to  secure  for  himself  the  thirteenth  glass  of  the  bottle  of 
port  wine.  Thus  he  would  have  the  command  of  the  joint  on 
which  he  operated  his  favorite  cuts,  and  made  rapid  dexterous 
appropriations  of  gravy,  which  amused  Pen  infinitely.  Poor 
Jack  Lowton  !  thy  pleasures  in  life  were  very  harmless ;  an 
eager  epicure,  th}'  desires  did  not  go  beyond  eighteen-pence. 


298  PENDENS  IS. 

Pen  was  somewhat  older  than  man}-  of  his  fellow-students, 
and  there  was  that  about  his  style  and  appearance  which,  as  w< 
have  said,  was  rather  haughty  and  impertinent,  that  stamped 
him  as  a  man  of  ton  —  very  unlike  those  pale  students  who 
were  talking  law  to  one  another,  and  those  ferocious  dandies, 
in  rowing  shirts  and  astonishing  pins  and  waistcoats,  who  rep- 
resented the  idle  part  of  the  little  community.  The  humble 
and  good-natured  Lowton  had  felt  attracted  by  Pen's  superior 
looks  and  presence  —  and  had  made  acquaintance  with  him  at 
the  mess  by  opening  the  conversation. 

"This  is  boiled-beef  day,  I  believe,  sir,"  said  Lowton  to 
Pen. 

"  Upon  my  word,  sir,  I'm  not  aware,"  said  Pen,  hardly  able 
to  contain  his  laughter,  but  added,  "•  Pm  a  stranger;  this  is 
my  first  term ; "  on  which  Lowton  began  to  point  out  to  him 
the  notabilities  in  the  Hall. 

"  That's  Boose}'  the  bencher,  the  bald  one  sitting  under  the 
picture  and  aving  soup ;  I  wonder  whether  it's  turtle  ?  The}- 
often  ave  turtle.  Next  is  Balls,  the  King's  Counsel,  and  Swet- 
tenham  —  Hodge  and  Swettenham,  you  know.  That's  old 
^rump,  the  senior  of  the  bar ;  they  say  he's  dined  here  fort}' 
/ears.  They  often  send  'em  down  their  fish  from  the  benchers 
to  the  senior  table.  Do  you  see  those  four  fellows  seated 
opposite  us?  They  are  regular  swells  —  tip-top  fellows,  I  can 
tell  you  —  Mr.  Trail,  the  Bishop  of  Ealing's  son.  Honorable 
Fred.  Ringwood,  Lord  Cinqbar's  brother,  you  know.  He'll 
have  a  good  place,  I  bet  any  money  :  and  Bob  Suckling,  who's 
always  with  him  —  a  high  fellow  too.  Ha  !  ha  !  "  Here 
Lowton  burst  into  a  laugh. 

"  What  is  it?"  said  Pen,  still  amused. 

"I  say,  I  like  to  mess  with  those  chaps,"  Lowton  said, 
winking  his  eye  knowingly,  and  pouring  out  his  glass  of 
wine. 

"  And  why?"  asked  Pen. 

"  Why  !  they  don't  come  down  here  to  dine  you  know,  they 
only  make  believe  to  dine.  Tfiey  dine  here.  Law  bless  you ! 
They  go  to  some  of  the  swell  clubs,  or  else  to  some  grand  din- 
ner party.  You  see  their  names  in  the  '  Morning  Post '  at  all 
the  fine  parties  in  London.  Why,  I  bet  anything  that  Ring- 
wood  has  his  cab,  or  Trail  his  brougham  (he's  a  devil  of  a  fel- 
low, and  makes  the  bishop's  money  spin,  I  can  tell  you)  at  the 
corner  of  Essex  Street  at  this  minute.  They  dine  !  They  won't 
dine  these  two  hours,  I  dare  say." 

"  But  why  should  you  like  to  mess  with  them,  if  they  don't 


PENDEXXIS.  299 

eat  any  dinner?"  Pen  asked,  still  puzzled.  ''There's  plenty, 
isn't  there?" 

"How  green  3'ou  are,"  said  Lowton.  "Excuse  me,  but 
3-0U  are  green.  The}"  don't  drhik  anj'  wine,  don't  3"ou  see,  and 
a  fellow  gets  the  bottle  to  himself  if  he  likes  it  when  he  messes 
with  those  three  chaps.  That's  wh}"  Corkoran  got  in  with 
'em." 

"Ah,  Mr.  Lowton,  I  see  ^-ou  arc  a  si}'  fellow,"  Pen  said, 
delighted  with  his  acquaintance  :  on  which  the  other  modestly 
replied,  that  he  had  lived  in  London  the  better  part  of  his  life, 
and  of  course  had  his  eyes  about  him ;  and  went  on  with  his 
catalogue  to  Pen. 

"There's  a  lot  of  Irish  here,"  he  said:  "that  Corkoran's 
one,  and  I  can't  say  I  like  him.  You  see  that  handsome  chap 
with  the  blue  neck-cloth,  and  pink  shirt,  and  yellow  waistcoat, 
that's  another :  that's  Molloy  Malonc}-,  of  Ball^maloney,  and 
nephew  to  Major-General  Sir  Hector  O'Dowd,  he,  he,"  Lowton 
said,  tr3ing  to  imitate  the  Hibernian  accent.  "He's  alwa3-s 
bragging  about  his  uncle  ;  and  came  into  Hall  in  silver-striped 
trousers  the  da}-  he  had  been  presented.  That  other  near  him, 
with  the  long  black  hair,  is  a  tremendous  rebel.  63*  Jove,  sir, 
to  hear  him  at  the  Forum  it  makes  3-our  blood  freeze  ;  and  the 
next  is  an  Irishman,  too.  Jack  Finucane,  reporter  of  a  news- 
paper. The}'  all  stick  together,  those  Irish.  It's  your  turn  to 
fill  3-our  glass.  What?  you  won't  have  any  port?  Don't  like 
port  with  3-our  dinner?  Here's  3-our  health."  And  this  worth3^ 
man  found  himself  not  the  less  attached  to  Pendennis  because 
the  latter  disliked  port  wine  at  dinner. 

It  was  while  Pen  was  taking  his  share  of  one  of  these  din- 
ners with  his  acquaintance  Lowton  as  the  captain  of  his  mess, 
that  there  came  to  join  them  a  gentleman  in  a  barrister's  gown, 
who  could  not  find  a  seat,  as  it  appeared,  amongst  the  persons 
of  his  own  degree,  and  who  strode  over  the  table  and  took 
his  place  on  the  bench  where  Pen  sat.  He  was  dressed  in  old 
elothes  and  a  faded  gown,  which  hung  behind  him,  and  he  wore 
a  shirt  which,  though  clean,  was  extremely  ragged,  and  very 
different  to  the  magnificent  pink  raiment  of  Mr.  Molloy  Maloney, 
who  occupied  a  commanding  position  in  the  next  mess.  In 
order  to  notif}-  their  appearance  at  dinner,  it  is  the  custom  of 
the  gentlemen  who  eat  in  the  Upper  Temple  Hall  to  write  down 
their  names  upon  slips  of  paper,  which  are  provided  for  that 
purpose,  with  a  pencil  for  each  mess.  Lowton  wrote  his  name 
first,  then  came  Arthur  Pemlennis,  and  the  next  was  that  of 
the  orentieman  in  the  old  clothes.     He  smiled  when  he  saw 


300  PENDENNIS. 

Pen's  name,  and  looked  at  him.  "We  ought  to  know  each 
other,"  he  said.  "  We're  both  Boniface  men  ;  my  name's  War- 
rington." 

"  Are  3'ou  St Warrington?"  Pen  said,  delighted  to  see 

this  hero. 

Warrington  laughed  —  "Stunning  Warrington  —  yes,"  he 
said.  "I  recollect  j'ou  in  your  freshman's  term.  But  you 
appear  to  have  quite  cut  me  out." 

"The  college  talks  about  you  still,"  said  Pen,  who  had  a 
generous  admiration  for  talent  and  pluck.  "The  bargeman 
you  thrashed,  Bill  Simes,  don't  jou  remember,  wants  you  up 
again  at  Oxbridge.     The  Miss  Notleys,  the  haberdashers  —  " 

"  Hush  !  "  said  Warrington —  "  glad  to  make  your  acquaint- 
ance, Pendennis.     Heard  a  good  deal  about  you." 

The  3'oung  men  were  friends  immediately,  and  at  once  deep 
in  college-talk.  And  Pen,  who  had  been  acting  rather  the  fine 
gentleman  on  a  previous  daj-,  when  he  pretended  to  Lowton 
that  he  could  not  drink  port  wine  at  dinner,  seeing  Warrington 
take  his  share  with  a  great  deal  of  gusto,  did  not  scruple  about 
helping  himself  any  more,  rather  to  the  disappointment  of  hon- 
est Lowton.  When  the  dinner  was  over,  Warrington  asked 
Arthur  where  he  was  going. 

"I  thought  of  going  home  to  dress,  and  hear  Grisi  in 
Norma,"  Pen  said. 

"  Are  you  going  to  meet  an^bod}'  there?  "  he  asked. 

Pen  said,  "No  —  onlj'  to  hear  the  music,  of  which  he  was 
very  fond." 

"  You  had  much  better  come  home  and  smoke  a  pipe  with 
me,"  said  Warrington,  —  "a  very  short  one.  Come,  I  live 
close  by  in  Lamb  Court,  and  we'll  talk  over  Boniface  and  old 
times." 

They  went  away ;  Lowton  sighed  after  them.  He  knew  that 
Warrington  was  a  baronet's  son,  and  he  looked  up  with  simple 
reverence  to  all  the  aristocracy.  Pen  and  Warrington  became 
sworn  friends  from  that  night.  Warrington's  cheerfulness  and 
jovial  temper,  his  good  sense,  his  rough  welcome,  and  his 
never-failing  pipe  of  tobacco,  charmed  Pen,  who  found  it  more 
pleasant  to  dive  into  shilling  taverns  with  him,  than  to  dine  in 
solitary  state  amongst  the  silent  and  polite  frequenters  of  the 
Polyanthus. 

Ere  long  Pen  gave  up  his  lodgings  in  St.  James's,  to  which 
he  had  migrated  on  quitting  his  hotel,  and  found  it  was  much 
more  economical  to  take  up  his  abode  with  Warrington  in  Lamb 
Court,  and  furnish  and  occup}-  his  friend's  vacant  room  there. 


FENDENNTS.  30\ 

For  it  must  be  said  of  Pen,  that  no  man  was  more  easily  led 
than  he  to  do  a  thing,  when  it  was  a  novelty',  or  when  he  had  a 
mind  to  it.  And  Pidgeon,  the  3-outh,  and  Flanagan  the  laun- 
dress, divided  their  allegiance  now  between  Warrington  and 
Pen. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

OLD   AND    NEW   ACQUAINTANCES. 

Elated  with  the  idea  of  seeing  life,  Pen  went  into  a  hundred 
queer  London  haunts.  He  liked  to  think  he  was  consorting 
with  all  sorts  of  men  —  so  he  beheld  coal-heavers  in  their  tap- 
rooms ;  boxers  in  their  inn-parlors  ;  honest  citizens  disporting 
in  the  suburbs  or  on  the  river ;  and  he  would  have  liked  to  hob 
and  nob  with  celebrated  pickpockets,  or  drink  a  pot  of  ale  with 
a  company-  of  burglars  and  cracksmen,  had  chance  afforded  him 
an  opportunit}^  of  making  tlie  acquaintance  of  this  class  of  so- 
ciety. It  was  good  to  see  the  gravity  with  which  Warrington 
listened  to  the  Tutbury  Pet  or  the  Brighton  Stunner  at  the 
Champion's  Arms,  and  behold  the  interest  which  he  took  in 
the  coal-heaving  company  assembled  at  the  Fox-uuder-the-Hill. 
His  acquaintance  with  the  public-houses  of  the  metropoUs  and 
its  neighborhood,  and  with  the  frequenters  of  their  various  par- 
lors, was  prodigious.  He  was  the  personal  friend  of  the  land- 
lord and  landlady',  and  welcome  to  the  bar  as  to  the  club-room. 
He  liked  their  society-,  he  said,  better  than  that  of  his  own  class, 
whose  manners  annoyed  him,  and  whose  conversation  bored 
him.  "In  societ}',"  he  used  to  sa^^  "  everybody  is  the  same, 
wears  the  same  dress,  eats  and  drinks,  and  says  the  same  things  ; 
one  young  dandy  at  the  club  talks  and  looks  just  like  another, 
one  Miss  at  a  ball  exactly  resembles  another,  whereas  there's 
character  here.  I  like  to  talk  with  the  strongest  man  in  Eng- 
land, or  the  man  who  can  drink  the  most  beer  in  England,  or 
with  that  tremendous  republican  of  a  hatter,  who  thinks  Thistle- 
wood  was  the  greatest  character  in  history.  I  like  gin-and- 
water  b(;tter  than  claret.  I  like  a  sanded  floor  in  Carnaby 
Market  better  than  a  chalked  one  in  Mayfair.  I  prefer  Snobs, 
I  own  it."  Indeed,  this  gentleman  was  a  social  republican  ; 
and  it  never  entered  his  head  while  conversing  with  Jack  and 
Tom  that  he  was  in  any  respect  their  better ;  although,  per- 
haps, the  deference  which  thev  Daid  him  might  secretly  please 
blm. 


302  PENDENNIS. 

Pen  followed  liim  then  to  these  various  resorts  of  men  with 
great  glee  and  assiduity.  But  he  was  considerably  younger, 
and  therefore  much  more  pompous  and  stately  than  Warring- 
ton ;  in  fact,  a  young  prince  in  disguise,  visiting  the  poor  of  his 
father's  kingdom.  They  respected  him  as  a  high  chap,  a  fine 
fellow,  a  regular  young  swell.  He  had  somehow  about  him  an 
air  of  imperious  good-humor,  and  a  royal  frankness  and  majest}-, 
although  he  was  only  heir  apparent  to  twopence-halfpenny,  and 
but  one  in  descent  from  a  gallipot.  If  these  positions  are  made 
for  us,  we  acquiesce  in  them  verj'  easil}' ;  and  are  always  pretty 
read}'  to  assume  a  superiority  over  those  who  are  as  good  as 
ourselves.  Pen's  condescension  at  this  time  of  his  life  was  a 
fine  thing  to  witness.  Amongst  men  of  ability  this  assumption 
and  impertinence  passes  off  with  extreme  youth  :  but  it  is  curi- 
ous to  watch  the  conceit  of  a  generous  and  clever  lad  —  there 
is  something  almost  touching  in  that  earl}'  exhibition  of  sim- 
plicity and  folly. 

So,  after  reading  prett}'  hard  of  a  morning,  and,  I  fear,  not 
law  merel}-,  but  politics  and  general  history  and  literature,  which 
were  as  necessary  for  the  advancement  and  instruction  of  a 
young  man  as  mere  dr}-  law,  after  applying  with  tolerable  assi- 
duit}'  to  letters,  to  reviews,  to  elemental  books  of  law,  and,  above 
all,  to  the  newspaper,  until  the  hour  of  dinner  was  di'awing  nigh, 
these  3'oung  gentlemen  would  sally  out  upon  the  town  with  great 
spirits  and  appetite,  and  bent  upon  enjoying  a  merr}'  night  as 
they  had  passed  a  pleasant  forenoon.  It  was  a  jovial  time,  that 
of  four-and-twenty,  when  every  muscle  of  mind  and  body  was 
in  healthy  action,  when  the  world  was  new  as  yet,  and  one 
moved  over  it  spurred  onwards  by  good  spirits  and  the  delight- 
ful capabilit}'  to  enjo}-.  If  ever  we  feel  30ung  afterwards,  it  is 
with  the  comrades  of  that  time  :  the  tunes  we  hum  in  our  old 
age,  are  those  we  learned  then.  Sometimes,  perhaps,  the  fes- 
tivity of  that  period  revives  in  our  memory  ;  but  how  dingy  the 
pleasure-garden  has  grown,  how  tattered  the  garlands  look,  how 
scant  and  old  the  compan}',  and  what  a  number  of  the  lights 
have  gone  out  since  that  day  !  Gray  hairs  have  come  on  like 
daylight  streaming  in  —  dayhght  and  a  headache  with  it. 
Pleasure  has  gone  to  bed  with  the  rouge  on  her  cheeks.  Well, 
friend,  let  us  walk  through  the  day,  sober  and  sad,  but  friendly. 

I  wonder  what  Laura  and  Helen  would  have  said,  could  the}' 
have  seen,  as  they  might  not  unfrequeutly  have  done  had  they 
been  up  and  in  London,  in  the  ver}-  early  morning  when  the 
bridges  began  to  blush  in  the  sunrise,  and  the  tranquil  streets 
of  the  cit}?^  to  shine  in  the  dawn,  Mr.  Pen  and  Mr.  Warrington 


PENDENNIS.  30S 

rattling  over  the  echoing  flags  towards  the  Temple,  after  one  of 
their  wild  nights  of  carouse  —  nights  wild,  but  not  so  wicked  as 
such  nights  sometimes  are.  for  AVarrington  was  a  woman-hater ; 
and  Pen,  as  we  have  said,  too  lofty  to  stoop  to  a  vulgar  intrigue. 
Our  young  Prince  of  Fairoaks  never  could  speak  to  one  of  the 
sex  but  with  respectful  courtesy,  and  shrank  from  a  coarse  word 
or  gesture  with  instinctive  delicacy  —  for  though  we  have  seen 
him  fall  in  love  with  a  fool,  as  his  betters  and  inferiors  have 
done,  and  as  it  is  probable  that  he  did  more  than  once  in  his 
life,  yet  for  the  time  of  the  delusion  it  was  always  as  a  Goddess 
that  he  considered  her,  and  chose  to  wait  upon  her.  Men  serve 
women  kneeling  —  when  the}-  get  on  their  feet,  they  go  awa\'. 

That  was  what  an  acquaintance  of  Pen's  said  to  him  in  his 
hard  homely  way  ;  —  an  old  friend  with  whom  he  had  fallen  in 
again  in  London  —  no  other  than  honest  Mr.  Bows  of  the  Chat- 
teris Theatre,  who  was  now  emploAcd  as  piano-forte  player,  to 
accompany-  the  eminent  lyrical  talent  which  nightly  delighted  the 
public  at  the  Fielding's  Ilead  in  Covent  Garden  :  and  where  was 
held  the  little  club  called  the  Back  Kitchen. 

Numbers  of  Pen's  friends  frequented  this  very  merry  meet- 
ing. The  Fielding's  Head  had  been  a  house  of  entertainment, 
almost  since  the  time  when  the  famous  author  of  "  Tom  Jones  " 
presided  as  magistrate  in  the  neighboring  Bow  Street ;  his  place 
was  pointed  out,  and  the  chair  said  to  have  been  his,  still  occu- 
pied b}-  the  president  of  the  night's  entertainment.  The  worthy 
Cutts,  the  landlord  of  the  Fielding's  Head,  gencrall}'  occupied 
this  post  when  not  disabled  by  gout  or  other  illness.  His  jolly 
appearance  and  fine  voice  may  be  remembered  by  some  of  my 
male  readers ;  he  used  to  sing  profusely  in  the  course  of  the 
harmonic  meeting,  and  his  songs  were  of  what  may  be  called 
the  British  Brand}-  and  Water  School  of  Song  —  such  as  ''  The 
Good  Old  English  Gentleman,"  "  Dear  Tom,  this  Brown  Jug," 
and  so  forth  —  songs  in  which  pathos  and  hospitalit}'  are  blended, 
and  the  praises  of  good  liquor  and  the  social  affections  are 
chanted  in  a  barytone  voice.  The  charms  of  our  women,  the 
heroic  deeds  of  our  naval  and  military  commanders,  are  often 
sung  in  the  ballads  of  this  school,  and  many  a  time  in  my  3-outh 
have  I  admired  how  Cutts  the  singer,  after  he  had  worked  us 
all  up  to  patriotic  enthusiasm,  by  describing  the  way  in  which 
the  braye  Abcrcrombie  received  his  death-wound,  or  made  us 
join  him  in  tears,  which  he  shed  libenilly  himself,  as  in  falter- 
mg  accents  he  told  "  how  autumn's  falling  leaf  proclaimed  the 
old  man  he  must  die  "  —  how  Cutts  the  singer  became  at  once 
Cutts  the  landlord,  and,  before  the  applause  which  we  wcu-c 


304  PENDENNIS. 

making  with  our  fists  on  his  table,  in  compliment  to  his  heai't 
stirring  melody,  had  died  away,  was  calling,  "  Now,  gentlemen, 
give  3'our  orders,  the  waiter's  in  the  room  —  John,  a  champagne 
cup  for  Mr.  Green.  I  think,  sir,  you  said  sausages  and  mashed 
potatoes.     John,  attend  on  the  gentleman." 

"  And  I'll  thank  ye  give  me  a  glass  of  punch  too,  John,  and 
take  care  thewather  boils,"  a  voice  would  cry  not  unfrequently, 
a  well-known  voice  to  Pen,  which  made  the  lad  blush  and  start 
when  he  heard  it  first  —  that  of  the  venerable  Captain  Costi- 
gan  ;  who  was  now  established  in  London,  and  one  of  the  great 
pillars  of  the  harmonic  meetings  at  the  Fielding's  Head. 

The  Captain's  manners  and  conversation  brought  very  many 
young  men  to  the  place.  He  was  a  character,  and  his  fame 
had  begun  to  spread  soon  after  his  arrival  in  the  metropolis, 
and  especialh'  after  his  daughter's  marriage.  He  was  great  in 
his  conversation  to  the  friend  for  the  time  being  (who  was  the 
neighbor  drinking  by  his  side),  about  "me  daughter."  He 
told  of  her  marriage,  and  of  the  events  previous  and  subsequent 
to  that  ceremon}' ;  of  the  carriages  she  kept ;  of  Mirabel's  ad- 
oration for  her  and  for  him  ;  of  the  hunther  pounds  which  he 
was  at  perfect  liberty  to  draw  from  his  son-in  law,  whenever 
necessity  urged  him.  And  having  stated  that  it  was  his  firm 
intention  to  "  dthraw  next  Sathurda}-,  I  give  ye  me  secred  word 
and  honor  next  Sathurdaj',  the  fourteenth,  when  3'e'll  see  the 
money  will  be  handed  over  to  me  at  Coutts's,  the  very  instant 
I  present  the  cheque,"  the  Captain  would  not  unfrequentlj- 
propose  to  borrow  half  a  crown  of  his  friend  until  the  arrival  of 
that  day  of  Greek  Calends,  when,  on  the  honor  of  an  oflScer 
and  a  gentleman,  he  would  repee  the  thrifling  oblige tion. 

Sir  Charles  Mirabel  had  not  that  enthusiastic  attachment 
to  his  father-in-law,  of  which  the  latter  sometimes  boasted 
(although  in  other  stages  of  emotion  Cos  would  inveigh,  with 
tears  in  his  eyes,  against  the  ingratitude  of  the  child  of  his 
bosom,  and  the  stinginess  of  the  wealthy  old  man  who  had 
married  her)  ;  but  the  pair  had  acted  not  unkindly  towards 
Costigan  ;  had  settled  a  small  pension  on  him,  which  was  paid 
regularly,  and  forestalled  with  even  more  regularity  bj"  poor 
Cos ;  and  the  periods  of  the  payments  were  always  well  known 
by  his  friends  at  the  Fielding's  Head,  whither  the  honest  Cap- 
tain took  care  to  repair,  bank-notes  in  hand,  calling  loudly  for 
change  in  the  midst  of  the  full  harmonic  meeting.  ' '  I  think 
ye'll  find  that  note  won't  be  refused  at  the  Bank  of  England, 
Cutts,  my  boy,"  Captain  Costigan  would  say.  "Bows,  have 
a  glass  ?     Ye  needn't  stint  yourself  to-night,  anyhow ;  and  a 


PENDENNIS.  305 

glass  of  punch  will  make  ye  play  con  spiriio."  For  he  was  lav- 
ishly free  with  his  money  when  it  came  to  him,  and  was  scarcely 
known  to  button  his  breeches  pocket,  except  when  the  coin 
was  gone,  or  sometimes,  indeed,  when  a  creditor  came  by. 

It  was  in  one  of  these  moments  of  exultation  that  Pen  found 
his  old  friend  swaggering  at  the  singers'  table  at  the  Back 
Kitchen  of  the  Fielding's  Head,  and  ordering  glasses  of  brandy- 
and-water  for  an3'  of  his  acquaintances  who  made  their  appear- 
ance in  the  apartment.  Warrington,  who  was  on  confidential 
terms  with  the  bass  singer,  made  his  wa}-  up  to  this  quarter  of 
the  room,  and  Fen  walked  at  his  friend's  heels. 

Pen  started  and  blushed  to  see  Costigan.  He  had  just  come 
from  Lady  Whiston's  part}-,  where  he  had  met  and  spoken  with 
the  Captain's  daughter  again  for  the  first  time  after  ver}*  old 
old  daj-s.  He  came  up  with  outstretched  hand,  ver}-  kindly 
and  warmly  to  greet  the  old  man  ;  still  retaining  a  strong  re- 
membrance of  the  time  when  Costigan's  daughter  had  been 
everything  in  the  world  to  him.  For  though  this  3'oung  gentle- 
man ma}-  have  been  somewhat  capricious  in  his  attachments, 
and  occasionally  have  transferred  his  afl'ections  from  one  woman 
to  another,  yet  he  always  respected  the  place  where  Love  had 
dwelt,  and,  like  the  Sultan  of  Turkey,  desired  that  honors 
should  be  paid  to  the  lady  towards  whom  he  had  once  thrown 
the  royal  pocket-handkerchief. 

The  tipsy  Captain  returned  the  clasp  of  Pen's  hand  with  all 
the  strength  of  a  palm  which  had  become  very  shaky  by  the 
constant  lifting  up  of  weights  of  brandy-and-water,  looked  hard 
in  Pen's  face,  and  said,  '^Grecious  heavens,  is  it  possible? 
Me  dear  boy,  me  dear  fellow,  me  dear  friend  ;  "  and  then  with 
a  look  of  muddled  curiosity,  fairly  broke  down  with,  "  I  know 
your  face,  me  dear  dear  friend,  but,  bedad,  I've  forgot  your 
name."  Five  years  of  constant  punch  had  passed  since  Pen 
and  Costigan  met.  Arthur  was  a  good  deal  changed,  and  the 
Captain  may  surely  be  excused  for  forgetting  him ;  when  a 
man  at  the  actual  moment  sees  things  double,  we  may  expect 
that  his  view  of  the  past  will  be  rather  muzzy. 

Pen  saw  his  condition  and  laughed,  although,  perhaps, 
he  was  somewhat  mortified.  "  Don't  you  remember  me.  Cap- 
tain?" he  said.  "I  am  Pendennis  —  Arthur  Pendennis,  of 
Chatteris." 

The  sound  of  the  young  man's  friendly  voice  recalled  and 
steadied  Cos's  tipsy  remembrance,  and  he  saluted  Arthur,  as 
soon  as  he  knew  him,  with  a  loud  volley  of  friendly  greetings. 
Pen  was  his  dearest  bo}',  his  gallant  young  friend,  his  noble 

20 


306  PENDENNIS. 

collagian,  whom  he  had  held  in  his  inmost  heart  ever  shice  they 
had  parted  —  how  was  his  fawther,  no,  his  mother,  and  his 
guardian,  the  General,  the  Major.  "-I  preshoom,  from  jour 
appearance,  that  you've  come  into  your  prawpertee ;  and, 
bedad,  ^ee'll  spend  it  like  a  man  of  spirit  —  I'll  go  bail  for  that. 
No !  not  3'et  come  into  your  estete  ?  If  3'e  want  an}'  thrifle, 
heark  ye,  there's  poor  old  Jack  Costigan  has  got  a  guinea  or 
two  in  his  pocket  —  and,  be  heavens  !  you  shall  never  want, 
Awthur,  me  dear  bo}'.  What'll  ye  have  ?  John,  come  hither, 
and  look  aloive  :  give  this  gentleman  a  glass  of  punch,  and  I'll 
pay  for't. — Your  friend?  I've  seen  him  before.  Permit  me 
to  have  the  honor  of  making  meself  known  to  36,  sir,  and  re- 
questing 3-e'll  take  a  glass  of  punch." 

"  I  don't  env}'  Sir  Charles  Mirabel  his  father-in-law,"  thought 
Pendennis.  "  And  how  is  m}^  old  friend,  Mr.  Bows,  Captain? 
Have  you  any  news  of  him,  and  do  you  see  him  still  ?  " 

"No  doubt  he's  very  well,"  said  the  Captain,  jingling  his 
money,  and  whistling  the  air  of  a  song — "The  Little  Doo- 
deen,"  —  for  the  singing  of  which  he  was  celebrated  at  the 
Fielding's  Head.  "Me  dear  boj'  —  I've  forgot  your  name 
again — but  me  name's  Costigan,  Jack  Costigan,  and  I'd  loike 
ye  to  take  as  man}'  tumblers  of  punch  in  me  name  as  ever  3'e 
loike.  Ye  know  me  name  ;  I'm  not  ashamed  of  it."  And  so 
the  Captain  went  maundering  on. 

"It's  pa3'-da3' with  the  General,"  said  Mr.  Hodgen,  the 
bass  singer,  with  whom  Warrington  was  in  deep  conversation  : 
"  and  he's  a  precious  deal  more  than  half-seas  over.  He  has 
ali-ead3'  tried  that  '  Little  Doodeen '  of  his,  and  broke  it,  too, 
just  before  I  sang  '  King  Death.'  Have  you  heard  my  new 
song,  'The  Body  Snatcher,'  Mr.  Warrington?  —  angcored  at 
St.  Bartholomew's  the  other  night  —  composed  expressly  for 
me.  Per'aps  3'ou  or  3-our  friend  would  like  a  cop3'  of  the  song, 
sir  ?  John,' just  'ave  the  kindness  to  'and  over  a  '  Bod3^  Snatcher' 
'ere,  wiU  3'er?  —  There's  a  portrait  of  me,  sir,  as  I  sing  it  —  as 
the  Snatcher —  considered  rather  like." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Warrington;  "heard  it  nine  times  — 
know  it  b3'  heart,  Hodgen." 

Here  the  gentleman  who  presided  at  the  pianoforte  began  to 
play  upon  his  instrument,  and  Pen,  looking  in  the  direction  of 
the  music,  beheld  that  ver3^  Mr.  Bows,  for  whom  lie  had  been 
asking  but  now,  and  whose  existence  Costigan  had  momentaril3^ 
forgotten.  The  little  old  man  sat  before  the  battered  piano 
(which  had  injured  its  constitution  wofull3^  by'  sitting  up  so 
many  nights,  and  spoke  with  a  voice,  as  it  were,  at  once  hoarse 


PENDENNIS.  307 

and  faint),  and  accompanied  the  singers,  or  played  with  taste 
and  grace  in  the  intervals  of  the  songs. 

Bows  had  seen  and  recollected  Pen  at  once  when  the  latter 
came  into  the  room,  and  had  remarked  the  eager  warmth  of  the 
joung  man's  recognition  of  Costigan.  He  now  began  to  play 
an  air,  which  Pen  instantly  remembered  as  one  which  used  to 
be  sung  b}-  the  chorus  of  villagers  in  "The  Stranger,"  just 
before  Mrs.  Haller  came  in.  It  sliook  Pen  as  he  heard  it. 
He  remembered  how  his  heart  used  to  beat  as  that  air  was 
pla^^ed,  and  before  the  divine  Emily  made  her  entry.  Nobody, 
save  Arthur,  took  an}'  notice  of  old  Bows's  playing :  it  was 
scarcely  heard  amidst  the  clatter  of  knives  and  forks,  the  calls 
for  poached  eggs  and  kidneys,  and  the  tramp  of  guests  and 
waiters. 

Pen  went  up  and  kindly  shook  the  player  b}'  the  hand  at  the 
end  of  his  performance ;  and  Bows  gi-eeted  Arthur  with  great 
respect  and  cordialit}'.  '•  What,  a'ou  haven't  forgot  the  old 
tune,  Mr.  Pendennis?"  he  said;  "  I  thought  you'd  remember 
it.  I  take  it,  it  was  the  first  tune  of  that  sort  j'ou  ever  heard 
pla^-ed — wasn't  it,  sir?  You  were  quite  a  young  chap  then. 
I  fear  the  Captain's  very  bad  to-night.  He  breaks  out  on  a 
pay-day  ;  and  I  shall  have  the  deuce's  own  trouble  in  getting 
him  home.  We  live  together.  We  still  hang  on,  sir,  in  part- 
nership, though  Miss  Em  —  though  my  lady  Mirabel  has  left 
the  firm.  —  And  so  you  remember  old  times,  do  3'ou?  Wasn't 
she  a  beauty,  sir?  —  Your  health  and  m}'  service  to  3'ou,"  — 
and  he  took  a  sip  at  the  pewter  measure  of  porter  which  stood 
bj^  his  side  as  he  played. 

Pen  had  many  opportunities  of  seeing  his  earl}'  acquaintances 
afterwards,  and  of  renewing  his  relations  with  Costigan  and  the 
old  musician. 

As  they  sat  thus  in  friendly  colloquy-,  men  of  all  sorts  r.nd 
conditions  entered  and  quitted  the  house  of  entertainment ; 
and  Pen  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  as  many  different  persons 
of  his  race,  as  the  most  eager  observer  need  desire  to  inspect. 
Healthy  country  tradesmen  and  farmers,  in  London  for  their 
business,  came  and  recreated  themselves  with  the  joU}'  singing 
and  suppers  of  the  Back  Kitchen,  squads  of  young  apprentices 
and  assistants,  the  shutters  being  closed  over  the  scene  of  their 
labors,  came  hither,  for  fresh  air  doubtless,  —  rakish  young 
medical  students,  gallant,  dashing,  wliat  is  called  "loudly" 
dressed,  and  (must  it  be  owned  ?)  somewhat  dirty,  —  were  here 
smoking  and  drinking,  and  vocifei'ously  applauding  the  songs  ; 


308  PENDENNIS 

—  young  universitj"  bucks  were  to  be  found  here,  too,  with  that 
indesci'ibable  genteel  simper  which  is  only  learned  at  the  knees 
of  Alma  Mater  ;  —  and  handsome  .young  guardsmen,  and  florid 
bucks  from  the  St.  James's  street  Clubs  ;  —  nay,  senators  Eng- 
lish and  Irish  :  and  even  members  of  the  House  of  Peers. 

The  bass  singer  had  made  an  immense  hit  with  his  song  of 
"  The  Body  Snatcher,"  and  the  town  rushed  to  listen  to  it.  A 
curtain  drew  aside,  and  Mr.  Hodgen  appeared  in  the  character 
of  the  Snatcher,  sitting  on  a  coffin,  with  a  flask  of  gin  before 
him,  with  a  spade,  and  a  candle  stuck  in  a  skull.  The  song 
was  sung  with  a  reall3'  admirable  terrific  humor.  The  singer's 
voice  went  down  so  low,  that  its  grumbles  rumbled  into  the 
hearer's  awe-stricken  soul ;  and  in  the  chorus  he  clamped  with 
his  spade,  and  gave  a  demoniac  "Ha  !  ha !  "  which  caused  the 
very  glasses  to  quiver  on  the  table,  as  with  terror.  None  of 
the  other  singers,  not  even  Cutts  himself,  as  that  high-minded 
man  owned,  could  stand  up  before  the  Snatcher,  and  he  com- 
monly used  to  retu-e  to  Mrs.  Cutts's  private  apartments,  or  into 
the  bar,  before  that  fatal  song  extinguished  him.  Poor  Cos's 
ditty,  "  The  Little  Doodeen,"  which  Bows  accompanied  charm- 
ingly on  the  piano,  was  sung  but  to  a  few  admirers,  who  might 
choose  to  remain  after  the  tremendous  resurrectionist  chant. 
The  room  was  commonly  emptied  after  that,  or  only  left  in  pos- 
session of  a  very  few  and  persevering  votaries  of  pleasure. 

Whilst  Pen  and  his  friend  were  sitting  here  together  one 
night,  or  rather  morning,  two  habitues  of  the  house  entered 
almost  together.  "Mr.  Hoolan  and  Mr.  Doolan,"  whispered 
Warrington  to  Pen,  saluting  these  gentlemen,  and  in  the  latter 
Pen  recognized  his  friend  of  the  Alacrity  coach,  who  could  not 
dine  with  Pen  on  the  day  on  which  the  latter  had  invited  him, 
being  compelled  by  his  professional  duties  to  decline  dinner- 
engagements  on  Fridays,  he  had  stated,  with  his  compliments 
to  Mr.  Pendennis. 

Doolan's  paper,  the  "  Dawn,"  was  lying  on  the  table  much 
bestained  by  porter,  and  cheek-b3'-jowl  with  Hoolan's  paper, 
which  we  shall  call  the  "  Day  ;  "  "^the  "  Dawn"  was  liberal  — 
the  "  Day  "  was  ultra  conservative.  Many  of  our  Journals  are 
officered  by  Irish  gentlemen,  and  their  gallant  brigade  does  the 
penning  among  us,  as  their  ancestors  used  to  transact  the  fight- 
ing in  Europe  ;  and  engage  under  many  a  flag,  to  be  good  friends 
when  the  battle  is  over. 

"  Kidneys,  John,  and  a  glass  of  stout,"  says  Hoolan.  "  How 
are  you,  Morgan?  how's  Mrs.  Doolan?" 

"  Doing  pretty  well,  thank  ye,  Mick,  my  boy  —  faith  she's 


PENDENNIS.  309 

accustomed  to  it,"  said  Doolan.  "  How's  the  lad}-  that  owns 
ye  ?  Maybe  I'll  step  down  Sunday,  and  have  a  glass  of  punch, 
Kilbum  way." 

"  Don't  bring  Patsey  with  you,  Morgan,  for  our  Georgy's  got 
the  measles,"  said  the  friendly  Mick,  and  they  straightway  fell 
to  talk  about  matters  connected  with  their  trade  —  about  the 
Ibreigu  mails  —  about  w4io  was  correspondent  at  Paris,  and  who 
wrote  from  Madrid  —  about  the  expense  the  ' "  Morning  Journal " 
was  at  in  sending  couriers,  about  the  circulation  of  the  "  Even- 
ing Star,"  and  so  forth. 

Warrington,  laughing,  took  the  "  Dawn,"  which  was  lying 
before  him,  and  pointed  to  one  of  the  leading  articles  in  that 
journal,  which  commenced  thus  — 

"  As  rogues  of  note  in  former  days  who  had  some  wicked 
work  to  perform,  —  an  enemy  to  put  out  of  the  way,  a  quantity 
of  false  coin  to  be  passed,  a  lie  to  be  told  or  a  murder  to  be 
done,  —  emplo3'ed  a  professional  perjurer  or  assassin  to  do  the 
work,  which  they  were  themselves  too  notorious  or  too  cowardly 
to  execute  ;  our  notorious  contemporaiy,  the  '  Da}','  engages 
smashers  out  of  doors  to  utter  forgeries  against  individuals, 
and  calls  in  auxiliary  cut-throats  to  ijitirder  the  reputation  of 
those  w'ho  offend  him.  A  black  vizarded  ruffian  (whom  we  will 
unmask) ,  who  signs  the  forged  name  of  Trefoil,  is  at  present 
one  of  the  chief  bravoes  and  bullies  in  our  contemporar3''s 
establishment.  He  is  the  eunuch  who  brings  the  bowstring, 
and  strangles  at  the  order  of  the  '  Day.'  We  can  convict  this 
cowardly  slave,  and  propose  to  do  so.  The  charge  which  he 
has  brought  against  Lord  Bangbanagher,  because  he  is  a  liberal 
Irish  peer,  and  against  the  Board  of  Poor  Law  Guardians  of 
the  Bangbanagher  Union,  is,"  &c. 

"How  did  they  like  the  article  at  your  place,  Mick?" 
asked  Morgan;  "when  the  Captain  puts  his  hand  to  it  he's 
a  tremendous  hand  at  a  smasher.  He  wrote  the  article  in  two 
hours  —  in  —  whew  —  you  know  where,  while  the  boy  was 
waiting." 

"  Our  governor  thinks  the  public  don't  mind  a  straw  about 
these  newspaper  rows,  and  has  told  the  Docther  to  stop  answer- 
ing," said  the  other.  "  Them  two  talked  it  out  together  in  m}' 
room.  The  Docther  would  liave  liked  a  turn,  for  he  says  it's 
such  easy  writing,  and  requires  no  reading  up  of  a  subject :  but 
the  governor  put  a  stopper  on  him." 

"The  taste  for  eloquence  is  going  out,  Mick,"  said  Mor- 
gan. 

"  'Deed  then  it  is,  Morgan,"  said  Mick.     "That  was  fine 


310  PENDENNIS. 

writing  when  the  Doether  wi'ote  in  the  '  Phaynix,'  and  he  and 
Condy  Rooney  blazed  awa}^  at  each  othei-  day  after  day." 

"And  with  powder  and  shot,  too,  as  well  as  paper,"  said 
Morgan.  "Faith,  the  Doether  was  out  twice,  and  Condy 
Roone}^  winged  his  man." 

"They  are  talking  about  Doctor  Boyne  and  Captain 
Shandon,"  Warrington  said,  "  who  are  the  two  Irish  con- 
troversialists of  the  '  Dawn '  and  the  '  Day,'  Dr.  Boyne  being 
the  Protestant  champion,  and  Captain  Shandon  the  liberal 
orator.  The}^  are  the  best  friends  in  the  world,  I  believe,  in 
spite  of  their  newspaper  controversies  ;  and  though  they  cry 
out  against  the  English  for  abusing  their  countr}',  by  Jove  the}^ 
abuse  it  themselves  more  in  a  single  article  than  we  should 
take  the  pains  to  do  in  a  dozen  volumes.  How  are  you, 
Doolan?" 

"Your  servant,  Mr.  Warrington — Mr.  Pendennis,  I  am 
delighted  to  have  the  honor  of  seeing  ye  again.  The  night's 
journey  on  the  top  of  the  Alacrity  was  one  of  the  most 
agi'eeable  I  ever  enjo3'ed  in  my  life,  and  it  was  your  liveliness 
and  urbanit}^  that  made  the  trip  so  charming.  I  have  often 
thought  over  that  happ}-  night,  sir,  and  talked  over  it  to  Mrs. 
Doolan.  I  have  seen  3'our  elegant  young  friend,  Mr.  Foker, 
too,  here,  sir,  not  unfrequentl}'.  He  is  an  occasional  frequenter 
of  this  hostehy,  and  a  right  good  one  it  is.  Mr.  Pendennis, 
when  I  saw  3'ou  I  was  on  the  '  Tom  and  Jerry  '  Weekly-  Paper  ; 
I  have  now  the  honor  to  be  sub-editor  of  the  '  Dawn,'  one  of 
the  best  written  papers  of  the  empire  "  —  and  he  bowed  ver}' 
slightly  to  Mr.  Warrington.  His  speech  was  unctuous  and 
measured,  his  courtesy  oriental,  his  tone,  when  talking  with  the 
two  Englishmen,  quite  different  to  that  with  which  he  spoke  to 
his  comrade. 

"  Why  the  devil  will  the  fellow  compliment  so?"  growled 
Warrington,  with  a  sneer  which  he  hardly  took  the  pains 
to  suppress.  "  Psha  —  who  comes  here?  —  all  Parnassus  js 
abroad  to-night :  here's  Archer.  We  shall  have  some  fun. 
Well,  Archer,  House  up?  " 

"Haven't  been  there.  I  have  been,"  said  Archer,  with  an 
air  of  mj^stery,  "  where  I  was  wanted.  Get  me  some  supper, 
John  —  something  substantial.  I  hate  your  gTandees  who  give 
you  nothing  to  eat.  If  it  had  been  at  Apsley  House,  it 
would  have  been  quite  different.  The  Duke  knows  what  I  like, 
and  says  to  the  Groom  of  the  Chambers,  '  Martin,  3'Ou  will  have 
some  cold  beef,  not  too  much  done,  and  a  pint  bottle  of  pale 
ale,  and  some  brown  sherry,  ready  in  my  study  as  usual ;  Archer 


PENDENNIS.  311 

13  coming  here  this  evening.'  The  Duke  doesn't  eat  supper 
himself,  but  he  likes  to  see  a  man  enjoy  a  heart\"  meal,  and  he 
knows  that  I  dine  early.  A  man  can't  live  upon  air,  be  hanged 
to  hun." 

"■  Let  me  introduce  you  to  mj'  I'riend,  Mr.  Pendennis," 
VYarrington  said,  with  great  gravity.  '•'  Pen,  this  is  Mr. 
Ai'cher,  whom  you  have  heard  me  talk  about.  You  must 
know  Pen's  uncle,  the  Major,  Archer,  you  who  know  every- 
body?" 

"  Dined  with  him  the  da}-  before  yesterday  at  Gaunt  House,'* 
Ai-cher  said.  ' '  We  were  four  —  the  French  Ambassador, 
Steyne,  and  we  two  commoners." 

"  AViiy,  my  uncle  is  in  Scot  —  "  Pen  was  going  to  break  out, 
but  "Warrington  pressed  his  foot  under  the  table  as  a  signal  for 
him  to  be  quiet. 

"It  was  about  the  same  business  that  I  have  been  to  the 
palace  to-night,"  Archer  went  on  simply,  "and  where  I've 
been  kept  four  hours,  in  an  ante-room,  with  nothing  but  yes- 
terday's '  Times,'  which  I  knew  b^-  heart,  as  I  wrote  three  ot 
the  leading  articles  myself;  and  though  the  Lord  Chamberlain 
came  in  four  tunes,  and  once  holding  the  ro^'al  teacup  and 
saucer  in  his  hand,  he  did  not  so  much  as  say  to  me,  '  Archer, 
will  Aou  have  a  cup  of  tea? ' " 

"  Indeed  I  what  is  in  the  wind  now?"  asked  Warrington  — 
and  turning  to  Pen,  added,  "  You  know,  I  suppose,  that 
when  there  is  anything  wrong  at  court  the}'  always  send  for 
Archer." 

"There  is  something  wrong,"  said  Mr.  Archer,  "and  as 
the  story  will  be  all  over  the  town  in  a  day  or  two  I  don't  mind 
telling  it.  At  the  last  Chautilly  races,  where  1  rode  Brian  Boru 
for  my  old  friend  tlie  Duke  de  St.  Cloud  —  the  old  king  said  to 
me,  '  Archer,  I'm  uneasy  about  Saint  Cloud.  I  have  arranged 
his  marriage  with  the  Princess  IMarie  Cunegonde  ;  the  peace  of 
Europe  depends  upon  it  —  for  Russia  will  declare  war  if  che 
marriage  does  not  take  place,  and  the  young  fool  is  so  mad 
about  Madame  INIassena,  iNIarshal  Massena's  wife,  that  he 
actually  refuses  to  be  a  part}'  to  the  marriage.'  Well,  sir,  I 
spoke  to  Saint  Cloud,  and  having  got  him  into  pretty  good 
humor  by  winning  the  race,  and  a  good  bit  of  money  into  the 
bargain,  he  said  to  me,  '  Archer,  tell  the  Governor  I'll  think 
of  it.'" 

"How  do  you  say  Governor  in  French?"  asked  Pen,  who 
piqued  himself  on  knowing  that  language. 

'■Oh,  we  speak  in  English  —  I   taught  him  when  we  wero 


312  PENDENNIS. 

boys,  and  I  saved  his  life  at  Twickenham,  when  he  fell  out  of 
a  punt,"  Archer  said.  "  I  shall  never  forget  the  Queen's  looks 
as  I  brought  him  out  of  the  water.  She  gave  me  this  diamond 
ring,  and  always  calls  me  Charles  to  this  day." 

"  Madame  Massena  must  be  rather  an  old  woman,  Archer," 
Warrington  said. 

' '  Dev'lish  old  —  old  enough  to  be  his  grandmother  ;  I  told 
him  so,"  Archer  answered  at  once.  "But  those  attachments 
for  old  women  are  the  deuce  and  all.  That's  what  the  king 
feels :  that's  what  shocks  the  poor  Queen  so  much.  They 
went  away  from  Paris  last  Tuesday  night,  and  are  living  at 
this  present  moment  at  Jaunay's  hotel." 

"  Has  there  been  a  private  marriage.  Archer?  "  asked  "War- 
rington. 

"Whether  there  has  or  not  I  don't  know,"  Mr.  Archer  re- 
plied ;  "all  I  know  is  that  I  was  kept  waiting  four  hours  at 
the  palace ;  that  I  never  saw  a  man  in  such  a  state  of  agitation 
as  the  King  of  Belgium  when  he  came  out  to  speak  to  me,  and 
that  I'm  devilish  hungry  —  and  here  comes  some  supper." 

"  He  has  been  pretty  well  to-night,"  said  Warrington,  as 
the  pair  went  home  together :  "  but  I  have  known  him  in  much 
greater  force,  and  keeping  a  whole  room  in  a  state  of  wonder. 
Put  aside  his  archery  practice,  that  man  is  both  able  and  hon- 
est—  a  good  man  of  business,  an  excellent  friend,  admirable 
to  his  family  as  husband,  father,  and  son." 

"  What  is  it  makes  him  pull  the  long  bow  in  that  wonderful 
manner  ?  " 

"An  amiable  insanit}-,"  answered  Warrington.  "  He  never 
did  anj'body  harm  by  his  talk,  or  said  evil  of  anybody.  He 
is  a  stout  politician  too,  and  would  never  write  a  word  or  do  an 
act  against  his  party,  as  many  of  us  do." 

"  Of  MS  !  Who  are  we  ?  "  asked  Pen.  "  Of  what  profession 
is  Mr.  Archer?" 

"Of  the  Corporation  of  the  Goosequill  —  of  the  Press,  my 
boy  "  said  Warrington  ;  "of  the  fourth  estate," 

"  Are  you,  too,  of  the  craft,  then?"  Pendennis  said. 

"We  will  talk  about  that  another  time,"  answered  the 
other.  They  were  passing  through  the  Strand  as  they  talked, 
and  by  a  newspaper  office,  which  was  all  lighted  up  and  bright. 
Reporters  were  coming  out  of  the  place,  or  rushing  up  to  it  in 
cabs ;  there  were  lamps  burning  in  the  editors'  rooms,  and 
above  where  the  compositors  were  at  work :  the  windows  of 
the  building  were  in  a  blaze  of  gas. 

"Look  at  that,  Pen,"  Warrington  said.     "There  she  is  — 


PENDENNIS.  313 

the  great  engine  —  she  never  sleeps.  She  has  her  ambassadors 
in  every  quarter  of  the  world  —  her  couriers  upon  ever}'  road. 
Her  officers  march  along  with  armies,  and  her  envoys  walk 
into  statesmen's  cabinets.  They  are  ubiquitous.  Yonder  jour- 
nal has  an  agent,  at  this  minute,  giving  bribes  at  Madrid  ;  and 
another  inspecting  the  price  of  potatoes  in  Co  vent  Garden. 
Look !  here  comes  the  Foreign  Express  galloping  in.  They 
will  be  able  to  give  news  to  Downing  Street  to-morrow  :  funds 
will  rise  or  fall,  fortunes  be  made  or  lost ;  Lord  B.  will  get  up, 
and,  holding  the  paper  in  his  hand,  and  seeing  the  noble  mar- 
quis in  his  place,  will  make  a  great  speech;  and  —  and  Mr. 
Doolan  will  be  called  away  from  his  supper  at  the  Back  Kitch- 
en ;  for  he  is  foreign  sub-editor,  and  sees  the  mail  on  the  news- 
paper sheet  before  he  goes  to  his  own." 

And  so  talking,  the  friends  turned  into  their  chambers,  as 
the  dawn  was  beginning  to  peep. 


CHAPTER  XXXi. 

IN   WHICH   THE   PRINTER'S    DEVIL    COMES   TO  THE   DOOR. 

Pen,  in  the  midst  of  his  revels  and  enjo3'ments,  humble  as 
the}"  were,  and  moderate  in  cost  if  not  in  kind,  saw  an  awful 
sword  hanging  over  him  which  must  drop  down  before  long  and 
put  an  end  to  his  frolics  and  feasting.  His  money  was  very 
nearly  spent.  His  club  subscription  had  can-ied  away  a  third 
part  of  it.  He  had  paid  for  the  chief  articles  of  furniture  with 
which  he  had  supplied  his  httle  bedroom  :  in  fine,  he  was  come 
to  the  last  five-pound  note  in  his  pocket-book,  and  could  think 
of  no  method  of  providing  a  successor  :  for  our  friend  had  Ijeen 
bred  up  like  a  young  prince  as  yet,  or  as  a  child  in  arms  whom 
his  mother  feeds  when  it  cries  out. 

Warrington  did  not  know  what  his  comrade's  means  were. 
An  only  child,  with  a  mother  at  lier  country  house,  and  an  old 
dandy  of  an  uncle  who  dined  with  a  great  man  every  day,  Pen 
might  have  a  large  bank  at  his  («mmand  for  anything  that  tlu* 
other  knew.  He  had  gold  chains  and  a  dressing-case  fit  for  a 
lord.  His  habits  were  those  of  an  aristocrat,  —  not  that  he 
was  expensive  upon  any  particular  point,  for  he  dined  and 
laughed  over  the  pint  of  porter  and  the  plate  of  beef  from  the 
cook's  shop  with  perfect  conient  and  good  appetite,  —  but  he 

11 


314  PENDENNIS 

could  not  adopt  the  pennj'-wise  precaittions  of  life.  He  could 
not  give  twopence  to  a  waiter  ;  he  could  not  refrain  from  taking 
a  cab  if  he  had  a  mind  to  do  so,  or  if  it  rained,  and  as  snrel}' 
as  he  took  the  cab  he  overpaid  the  driver.  He  had  a  scorn  for 
cleaned  gloves  and  minor  economies.  Had  he  been  bred  to 
ten  thousand  a  year  he  could  scarcel>^  have  been  more  free- 
handed ;  and  for  a  beggar^  with  a  sad  story,  or  a  couple  of 
pretty  piteous-faced  children,  he  never  could  resist  putting  his 
hand  into  his  pocket.  It  was  a  sumptuous  nature,  perhaps, 
that  could  not  be  brought  to  regard  raonc}' ;  a  natural  generosity 
and  kindness ;  and  possibly  a  petty  vanity  that  was  pleased 
with  praise,  even  with  the  praise  of  waiters  and  cabmen. 
I  doubt  whether  the  wisest  of  us  know  what  our  own  motives 
are,  and  whether  some  of  the  actions  of  which  we  are  the  very 
proudest  will  not  surprise  us  when  we  trace  them,  as  we  shall 
one  day,  to  their  source. 

Warrington  then  did  not  know,  and  Pen  had  not  thought 
proper  to  confide  to  his  friend,  his  pecuniar}'  history.  That 
Pen  had  been  wild  and  wickedly  extravagant  at  college,  the 
other  was  aware ;  everj-bod}^  at  college  was  exti'avagant  and 
wild ;  but  how  great  the  son's  exj^enses  had  been,  and  how 
small  the  mother's  means,  were  points  which  had  not  been  as 
yet  submitted  to  Mr.  Warrington's  examination. 

At  last  the  story  came  out,  while  Pen  was  griml}'  surveying 
the  change  for  the  last  five-pound  note,  as  it  lay  upon  the  tray 
from  the  public-house  by  Mr.  Warrington's  pot  of  ale. 

"  It  is  the  last  rose  of  summer,"  said  Pen ;  "'its  blooming 
companions  have  gone  long  ago  ;  and  behold  the  last  one  of 
the  garland  has  shed  its  leaves  ; "  and  he  told  Warrington  the 
whole  story  which  we  know  of  his  mother's  means,  of  his  own 
follies,  of  Laura's  generosity :  during  which  time  Warrington 
smoked  his  pipe  and  listened  intent. 

"  Impecuniosity  will  do  you  good,"  Pen's  friend  said,  knock-, 
ing  out  the  ashes  at  the  end  of  the  narration;  "  I  don't  know, 
anything  more  wholesome  for  a   man — for  an  honest   man,« 
mind  you  —  for  another  the  medicine  loses  its  effect  —  than  a 
state  of  tick.     It  is  an  alterative  and  a  tonic ;  it  keeps  your 
moral  man  in  a  perpetual  state  of  excitement :  as  a  man  who  is 
riding  at  a  fence,  or  has  his  opponent's  single  stick  before  him, 
is  forced  to  look  his  obstacle  steadily  in  the  face,  and  brace 
himself  to  repulse  or  overcome  it ;  a  little  necessity  brings  out 
your  pluck  if  you  have  any,  and  nerves  you  to  grapple  with  for- 
tune.    You  will  discover  what  a  number  of  things  you  can  do 
without  when  you  have  no  money  to  buy  them.     You  won't 


P£NDJt;2sXIS.  315 

want  new  gloves  and  varnished  boots,  eau  do  Cologne,  and 
cabs  to  ride  in.  You  have  been  bred  up  as  a  molly-coddle. 
Pen,  and  spoilt  by  the  women.  A  single  man  who  has  health 
and  brains,  and  can't  find  a  livelihood  in  the  world  doesn't 
deserve  to  stay  there.  Let  him  pay  bis  last  halfpenny  and 
jump  over  "Waterloo  Bridge.  Let  hun  steal  a  leg  of  mutton 
and  be  transported  and  get  out  of  the  country  —  he  is  not  lit  to 
live  in  it.  Dixi ;  I  have  spoken.  Give  us  another  pull  at  the 
pale  ale." 

•'  You  have  certainly  spoken  ;  but  how  is  one  to  live?"  said 
Pen.  ••  There  is  beef  and  bread  in  [jlent}-  iu  England,  but  you 
must  pay  for  it  with  work  or  money.  And  who  will  take  my 
work?  and  what  work  can  1  do?  " 

Warrington  burst  out  laughing.  "  Suppose  we  advertise 
in  the  •  Times,'"  he  said,  "  for  an  usher's  place  at  a  classical 
and  commercial  academy  —  A  gentleman,  B.A.  of  St.  Boniface 
College,  Oxbridge,  and  who  was  plucked  for  his  d^^gree  —  " 

"  Confound  you,"  cried  Pen. 

' '  —  Wishes  to  give  lessons  in  classics  and  mathematics, 
and  the  rudiments  of  the  French  language  ;  he  can  cut  hair, 
attend  to  the  younger  pupils,  and  play  a  second  on  the  piano 
with  the  daughters  of  the  principal.  Address  A.  P..  Lamb 
Court,  Temple." 

''  Go  on,"  said  Pen,  growling. 

"  Men  take  to  all  sorts  of  professions.  Why,  there  ?s  your 
friend  Bloundell  —  Bloundell  is  a  professional  blackleg,  and 
travels  the  continent,  where  he  picks  up  young  gentlemen  of 
fashion  and  fleeces  them.  There  is  Bob  O'Toole,  with  whoni 
I  was  at  school,  who  di'ives  the  Ballynafad  mail  now,  and 
caiTies  honest  Jack  Finucane's  own  correspondence  to  that  city. 
I  know  a  man,  su-,  a  doctor's  son,  like  —  well,  don't  be  angiy. 
I  meant  nothing  offensive  —  a  doctor's  son,  I  sa}',  who  wasr 
walking  the  hospitals  here,  and  quarrelled  with  his  governor  on 
questions  of  finance,  and  what  did  he  do  when  he  camo  to  his 
last  five-pound  note?  he  let  his  mustachios  grow,  went  into  a 
provincial  town,  where  he  announced  himself  as  Professor 
Spiueto,  chiropodist  to  the  Emperor  of  All  the  Russias,  and 
by  a  happy  operation  on  the  editor  of  the  county  newspaper, 
established  Jiimself  in  practice,  and  lived  reputably'  for  three 
jears.  He  has  been  reconciled  to  his  family,  and  has  now  suc- 
ceeded to  his  father's  gallipots." 

"  Hang  gallipots,"  cried  Pen.  ''  I  can't  drive  d  coach,  cut 
corns,  or  cheat  at  cards.     There's  nothing  else  you  propose." 

"■Yes;   there's  our  own  correspondent,"  Warrington  said. 


315  PENDENNIS. 

"Every  man  has  his  secrets,  look  you.  Before  you  told  me 
the  story  of  j-our  money-matters,  I  had  no  idea  but  that  you 
were  a  gentleman  of  fortune,  for,  with  your  confounded  airs 
and  appearance,  anybody  would  suppose  you  to  be  so.  Fi'om 
what  you  tell  me  about  your  mother's  income,  it  is  clear  that 
you  must  not  la}-  any  more  hands  on  it.  You  can't  go  on 
sponging  upon  the  women.  You  must  pay  off  that  trump  of  a 
girl.  Laura  is  her  name  ?  —  here's  3'our  health,  Laura  !  —  and 
carry  a  hod  rather  than  ask  for  a  shilling  from  home." 

"  But  how  earn  one? "  asked  Pen. 

"How  do  I  live,  think  3'ou?"  said  the  other.  "On  my 
younger  brother's  allowance,  Pendennis?  I  have  secrets  of  my 
own,  my  boy  ;  "  and  here  Warrington's  countenance  fell.  "I 
made  away  with  that  allowance  five  years  ago  :  If  I  had  made 
awa}' with  m3^self  a  little  time  before,  it  would  have  been  better. 
I  have  plaj'ed  off  my  own  bat,  ever  since.  I  don't  want  much 
money.  When  my  purse  is  out,  I  go  to  work  and  fill  it,  and 
then  lie  idle  like  a  serpent  or  an  Indian,  until  I  have  digested 
the  mass.  Look,  I  begin  to  feel  empt}',"  Warrington  said,  and 
showed  Pen  a  long  lean  purse,  with  but  a  few  sovereigns  at  one 
end  of  it. 

"But  how  do  3'OU  fill  it? "  said  Pen. 

"  I  write,"  said  Warrington.  "  I  don't  tell  the  world  that  I 
do  so,"  he  added,  with  a  blush.  "I  do  not  choose  that  ques- 
tion should  be  asked :  or,  perhaps,  I  am  an  ass,  and  don't  wish 
it  to  be  said  that  George  Warrington  writes  for  bread.  But  I 
write  in  the  Law  Reviews  :  look  here,  these  articles  are  mine," 
And  he  turned  over  some  sheets.  "I  write  in  a  newspaper 
now  and  then,  of  which  a  friend  of  mine  is  editor."  And  War- 
rington, going  with  Pendennis  to  the  club  one  day,  called  for  a 
file  of  the  "  Dawn,"  and  pointed  with  his  finger  silently  to 
one  or  two  articles,  which  Pen  read  with  delight.  He  had 
no  difficult}'  in  recognizing  the  style  afterwards  —  the  strong 
thoughts  and  curt  periods,  the  sense,  the  satire,  and  the 
scholarship. 

"  I  am  not  up  to  this,"  said  Pen,  with  a  genuine  admiration 
of  his  friend's  powers.  "I  know  very  little  about  politics  or 
histor}',  Warrington  ;  and  have  but  a  smattering  of  letters.  I 
can't  fly  upon  such  a  wing  as  yours." 

"  But  3^ou  can  on  your  own,  m}'  bo}-,  which  is  lighter,  and 
soars  higher,  perhaps,"  the  other  said,  good-naturedly.  "  Those 
little  scraps  and  verses  which  I  have  seen  of  3'ours  show  me, 
what  is  rare  in  these  days,  a  natural  gift,  sir.  You  needn't 
blush,  you  conceited  young  jackanapes.     You  have  thought  so 


PENDE^:sl.S.  317 

yonrself  any  time  these  ten  years.  You  have  got  the  sacred 
flame  —  a  Uttle  of  the  real  poetical  fire,  sir,  I  tliiuk  ;  and  all  our 
oil-lamps  are  nothing,  compared  to  that,  though  ever  so  well 
trimmed.  You  are  a  poet.  Pen,  my  boy,"  and  so  speaking, 
Warrington  stretched  out  his  broad  hand,  and  clapped  Pen  on 
the  shoulder. 

Arthur  was  so  delighted  that  the  tears  came  into  his  eyes. 
"  How  kind  30U  are  to  me,  Warrington  !  "  he  said. 

"I  like  30U,  old  boy,"  said  the  other.  "I  was  dev'lish 
lonel}'  in  chambers  and  wanted  somebod}^  and  the  sight  of  your 
honest  face  somehow  pleased  me.  I  liked  the  wa^'  3'ou  laughed 
at  Lowton  —  that  poor  good  little  snob.  And,  in  fine,  the 
reason  whj'  I  cannot  tell  —  but  so  it  is,  young  'un.  Pm  alone 
in  the  world,  sir ;  and  I  wanted  some  one  to  keep  me  company  ; " 
and  a  glance  of  extreme  kindness  and  melanchol}'  passed  out  of 
Warrington's  dark  eyes. 

Pen  was  too  much  pleased  with  his  own  thoughts  to  perceive 
the  sadness  of  the  friend  who  was  complimenting  him.  "Thank 
you,  Warrington,"  he  said,  "thank  you  for  your  friendship  to 
me,  and  —  and  what  3'ou  say  about  me.  I  have  often  thought 
I  was  a  poet.  I  will  be  one  —  I  think  I  am  one,  as  3'ou  say 
so,  though  the  world  ma3'n't.  Is  it  —  is  it  the  Ariadne  in  Naxos 
which  you  liked  (I  was  only  eighteen  ^\^en  I  wrote  it) ,  or  the 
Prize  Poem  ?  " 

Warrington  burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter.  "Why,  you 
young  goose,"  he  yelled  out  —  "of  all  the  miserable  weak  rub- 
bish 1  ever  tried,  Ariadne  in  Naxos  is  the  most  mawkish  and 
disgusting.  The  Prize  Poem  is  so  pompous  and  feeble,  that 
I'm  positively  smprised,  sir,  it  didn't  get  the  medal.  You  don't 
suppose  that  you  are  a  serious  poet,  do  you,  and  are  going  to  cut 
out  Milton  and  ^schylus  ?  Are  3'ou  setting  up  to  be  a  Pindar, 
you  absurd  little  tom-tit,  and  fanc}'  you  have  the  strength  and 
pinion  which  the  Theban  eagles  bear,  sailing  with  supreme 
dominion  through  the  .azure  fields  of  air  ?  No,  my  boy,  I  think 
3'ou  can  write  a  magazine  article,  and  turn  out  a  prettj'  copy  of 
verses  ;  that's  what  I  think  of  3-ou." 

"  B^-  Jove  !  "  said  Pen,  bouncing  up  and  stamping  his  foot, 
"  I'll  show  you  that  I  am  a  better  man  than  you  think  for." 

Warrington  only  laughed  the  more,  and  ?^lew  twenty-four 
puffs  rapidly  out  of  his  pipe  by  wa}-  of  reply  to  Pen. 

An  opportunity  for  showing  his  skill  presented  itself  before 
very  long.  That  eminent  publisher,  Mr.  Bacon  (formerly  Bacon 
und  Bunga})  of  Paternoster  Row.  besides  being  the  proprietor 


318  PENDENNIS. 

of  the  "Legal  Review,"  m  which  Mr.  Warrington  wrote,  and 
of  other  periodicals  of  note  and  gravity,  used  to  present  to  the 
world  every  year  a  beautiful  gilt  volume  called  the  "Spring 
Annual,"  edited  b3'  the  Lad}'  Violet  Lebas,  and  numbering 
amongst  its  contributors  not  only  the  most  eminent,  but  the 
most  fashionable,  poets  of  our  time.  Young  Lord  Dodo's  poems 
first  appeared  in  this  miscellany  —  the  Honorable  Percy  Popjoy, 
whose  chivalrous  ballads  have  obtained  him  such  a  reputation  — 
Bedwin  Sands's  Eastern  Ghazuls,  and  many  more  of  the  works 
of  our  3'oung  nobles  were  first  given  to  the  world  in  the  "  Spring 
Annual,"  which  has  since  shared  the  fate  of  other  vernal  blos- 
soms, and  perished  out  of  the  world.  The  book  was  daintily 
illustrated  with  pictures  of  reigning  beauties,  or  other  prints  of 
a  tender  and  voluptuous  character ;  and,  as  these  plates  were 
prepared  long  beforehand,  requiring  much  time  in  engraving,  it 
was  the  eminent  poets  who  had  to  write  to  the  plates,  and  not 
the  painters  who  illustrated  the  poems. 

One  day,  just  when  this  volume  was  on  the  eve  of  publica- 
tion, it  chanced  that  Mr.  Warrington  called  in  Paternoster  Row 
to  talk  with  Mr.  Hack,  Mr.  Bacon's  reader  and  general  manager 
of  publications  —  for  Mr.  Bacon,  not  having  the  least  taste  in 
poetry  or  in  literature  of  any  kind,  wisely  emplo^'ed  the  services 
of  a  professional  gentleman.  AVarrington,  then,  going  into  Mr. 
Hack's  room  on  business  of  his  own,  found  that  gentleman  with 
a  bundle  of  proof  plates  and  sheets  of  the  ' '  Spring  Annual " 
before  him,  and  glanced  at  some  of  them. 

Percy  Popjoy  had  written  some  verses  to  illustrate  one  of 
the  pictures,  which  was  called  the  Church  Porch.  A  Spanish 
damsel  was  hastening  to  church  with  a  large  prayer-book  ;  a 
youth  in  a  cloak  was  hidden  in  a  niche  watching  this  young 
woman.  The  picture  was  pretty :  but  the  great  genius  of 
Percy  Popjoy  had  deserted  him,  for  he  had  made  the  most 
execrable  verses  which  ever  were  perpetrated  b}'  a  young  noble- 
man. 

Warrington  burst  out  laughing  as  he  read  the  poem :  and 
Mr.  Hack  laughed  too,  but  with  rather  a  rueful  face.  —  "  It 
won't  do,"  he  said,  "the  public  won't  stand  it.  Bungay's 
people  are  going  to  bring  out  a  very  good  book,  and  have  set 
up  Miss  Bunion  against  Lad}-  Violet.  We  have  most  titles  to 
be  sure  —  but  the  verses  are  too  bad.  Lad}'  Violet  herself  owns 
it ;  she's  busy  with  her  own  poem  ;  what's  to  be  done  ?  We 
can't  lose  the  plate.     The  governor  gave  sixt}'  pounds  for  it !  " 

"I  know  a  fellow  who  will  do  some  verses,  I  think,"  said 
Warrington.     "  Let  me  take  the  plate  home  in  my  pocket :  and 


PENDENNIS.  319 

send  to  m\-  chambers  in  the  morning  for  the  verses.  You'll 
pay  well,  of  course  ?  " 

"Of  course,"  said  Mr.  Hack;  and  Warrington,  having 
despatched  his  own  business,  went  home  to  Mr.  Pen,  plate  in 
hand. 

"Now,  boy,  here's  a  chance  for  you.  Turn  me  off  a  copy 
of  verses  to  this." 

"  What's  this?  A  Church  Porch  —  A  lady  entering  it,  and 
a  youth  out  of  a  wine-shop  window  ogling  her.  —  AVhat  the 
deuce  am  I  to  do  with  it?" 

"  Try,"  said  Warrington.  "  Earn  your  livelihood  for  once, 
you  who  long  so  to  do  it." 

"  Well,  I  will  try,"  said  Pen. 

"  And  I'll  go  out  to  dinner,"  said  Warrington,  and  left  Mr. 
Pen  in  a  brown  study. 

When  Warrington  came  home  that  night,  at  a  very  late 
hour,  the  verses  were  done.  "There  they  are,"  said  Pen. 
"  I've  screwed  'em  out  at  last.     I  think  they'll  do." 

"I  think  they  will,"  said  Warrington,  after  reading  them; 
they  ran  as  follows  :  — 

THE   CHURCH   PORCH. 

Although  I  enter  not, 
Yet  round  about  the  spot 

Sometimes  I  hover, 
And  at  the  sacred  gate, 
With  longing  eyes  I  wait. 

Expectant  of  lier. 

The  Minster  bell  tolls  out 
Above  the  city's  rout 

And  noise  and  humming: 
They've  stopp'd  the  chiming  bell, 
I  hear  the  organ's  swell  — 

She's  coming,  she's  coming' 

My  lady  comes  at  last. 
Timid  and  stepping  fast, 

And  hastening  hither, 
With  modest  eyes  downcast. 
She  comes  —  she's  here  —  she's  past 

May  Heaven  go  with  her ! 

Kneel  undisturb'd,  fair  saint, 
Pour  out  your  praise  or  plaint 

Meekly  and  duly. 
I  will  not  enter  there. 
To  sully  your  pure  prayer 

With  thoughts  unruly. 


320  PENDENNIS. 

But  suffer  me  to  pace 
Round  the  forbidden  place, 

Lingering  a  minute, 
Like  outcast  spirits,  who  wait 
And  see  through  Heaven's  gate 

Angels  within  it. 

"Have  j'ou  got  any  more,  young  fellow?"  asked  "War- 
rington. "We  must  make  them  give  you  a  couple  of 
guineas  a  page ;  and  if  the  verses  are  liked,  why,  j^ou'U  get 
an  entree  into  Bacon's  magazines,  and  may  turn  a  decent 
penny." 

Pen  examined  his  portfolio  and  found  another  ballad  which 
he  thought  might  figure  with  advantage  in  the  "  Spring  An- 
nual," and  consigning  these  two  precious  documents  to  War- 
rington, the  pair  walked  from  the  Temple,  to  the  famous  haunt 
of  the  Muses  and  their  masters,  Paternoster  Row.  Bacon's 
shop  was  an  ancient  low-browed  building,  with  a  few  of  the 
books  published  bj-  the  firm  displayed  in  the  windows,  under  a 
bust  of  my  Lord  of  Verulam,  and  the  name  of  Mr.  Bacon  in  brass 
on  the  private  door.  Exactly  opposite  to  Bacon's  house  was 
that  of  Mr.  Bungaj',  which  was  newly  painted  and  elaborately 
decorated  in  the  style  of  the  seventeenth  centur}',  so  that  you 
might  have  fancied  statel}-  Mr.  Evelyn  passing  over  the  thresh- 
old, or  curious  Mr.  Pepys  examining  the  books  in  the  window. 
Warrington  went  into  the  shop  of  Mr.  Bacon,  but  Pen  stayed 
without.  It  was  agreed  that  his  ambassador  should  act  for 
him  entirety ;  and  the  3'oung  fellow  paced  up  and  down  the 
street  in  a  very  nervous  condition,  until  he  should  learn  the 
result  of  the  negotiation.  Man}'  a  poor  devil  before  him  has 
trodden  those  flags,  with  similar  cares  and  anxieties  at  his 
heels,  his  bread  and  his  fame  dependent  upon  the  sentence  of 
his  magnanimous  patrons  of  the  Row.  Pen  looked  at  all  the 
wonders  of  all  the  shops  ;  and  the  strange  variety  of  literature 
which  they  exhibit.  In  this  were  displayed  black-letter  vol- 
umes and  books  in  the  clear  pale  types  of  Aldus  and  Elzevir : 
in  the  next,  you  might  see  the  ' '  Penn}'  Horrific  Register ;  " 
the  "  Halfpenu}'  Annals  of  Crime,"  and  "  History  of  the  most 
celebrated  Murderers  of  all  Countries,"  "  The  Rafl["s  Magazine," 
"  The  Larky  Swell,"  and  other  publications  of  the  penn}'  press  ; 
whilst  at  the  next  window,  portraits  of  ill-favored  individuals, 
with  fac-similes  of  the  venerated  signatures  of  the  Reverend 
Grimes  Wapshot,  the  Reverend  Elias  Howie,  and  the  works 
written  and  the  sermons  preached  by  them,  showed  the  British 
Dissenter  where  he  could  find  mental  pabulum.     Hard  by  would 


PENDENNI.S.  321 

be  a  little  casement  hung  wiLli  emblems,  with  medals  and  rosa- 
ries, with  little  paltry  prints  ol"  saints  gilt  and  painted,  and 
books  of  controversial  theology,  b}'  which  the  faithful  of  the 
Roman  opinion  might  learn  a  short  wa}'  to  deal  with  Protes- 
tants, at  a  penny  apiece,  or  ninepence  the  dozen  for  distribu- 
tion ;  whilst  in  the  very  next  window  3'ou  might  see  "  Come 
out  of  Rome,"  a  sermon  preached  at  the  opening  of  the  Shep- 
herd's Bush  College,  by  John  Thomas  Lord  Bishop  of  Ealing, 
Scarce  an  opinion  but  has  its  expositor  and  its  place  of  exhibi- 
tion in  this  peaceful  old  Paternoster  Row,  under  the  toll  of  the 
bells  of  Saint  Paul. 

Pen  looked  in  at  all  the  windows  and  shops,  as  a  gentleman, 
who  is  going  to  have  an  interview  with  the  dentist,  examines 
the  books  on  the  waiting-room  table.  He  remembered  them 
afterwards.  It  seemed  to  him  that  Warrington  would  never 
come  out ;  and  indeed  the  latter  was  engaged  for  some  time 
in  pleading  his  friend's  cause. 

Pen's  natural  conceit  would  have  swollen  immensely  if  he 
could  but  have  heard  the  report  which  Warrington  gave  of  him. 
It  happened  that  Mr.  Bacon  himself  had  occasion  to  descend 
to  Mr.  Hack's  room  whilst  Warrington  was  talking  there,  and 
Wan-ington,  knowing  Bacon's  weaknesses,  acted  upon  them 
with  gi-eat  adroitness  in  his  friend's  behalf.  In  the  first  place, 
he  put  on  his  hat  to  speak  to  Bacon,  and  addressed  him  from 
the  table  on  which  he  seated  himself.  Bacon  liked  to  be  treated 
with  rudeness  by  a  gentleman,  and  used  to  pass  it  on  to  his 
inferiors  as  boys  pass  the  mark.  "  What !  not  know  Mr.  Pen- 
dennis,  Mr.  Bacon?  "  Warrington  said.  •'  You  can't  live  much 
in  the  world,  or  you  would  know  him.  A  man  of  property'  in 
the  West,  of  one  of  the  most  ancient  families  in  England,  re- 
lated to  half  the  nobilit}-  in  the  empire  —  he's  cousin  to  Lord 
Pont3'pool  —  he  was  one  of  the  most  distinguished  men  at  Ox- 
bridge  ;  he  dines  at  Gaunt  House  every  week." 

"Law  bless  me,  3'ou  don't  say  so,  sir.  Well  —  really  — 
Law  bless  me  now,"  said  Mr.  Bacon. 

"  I  have  just  been  showing  Mr.  Hack  some  of  his  verses, 
which  he  sat  up  last  night,  at  my  request,  to  write  ;  and  Hack 
talks  about  giving  him  a  copy  of  the  book  —  the  what-d'-you- 
call-'em." 

"Law  bless  me  now,  does  he?  The  what-d'-you-call-'em. 
Indeed !  " 

"  '  The  Spring  Annual'  is  its  name,  —  as  payment  for  these 
verses.  You  don't  suppose  that  such  a  man  as  Mr.  Arthur 
Pendennis    gives  up  a  dinner  at  Gaunt  House  for  nothing? 

21 


322  PENDENNIS. 

You  know,  as  well  as  anybod}',  that  the  men  of  fashion  want 
to  be  paid." 

"  That  they  do,  Mr.  Warrington,  sir,"  said  the  pubHsher. 

* '  I  tell  you  he's  a  star  ;  he'll  make  a  name,  sir.  He's  a  new 
man,  sir." 

"  They've  said  that  of  so  many  of  those  3'oung  swells,  Mr. 
Warrington,"  the  publisher  interposed,  with  a  sigh.  "  There 
was  Lord  Viscount  Dodo,  now ;  I  gave  his  Lordship  a  good  bit 
of  money  for  his  poems,  and  only  sold  eighty  copies.  Mr. 
Popjoy's  Hadgincourt,  sir,  fell  dead." 

"Well,  then,  I'll  take  my  man  over  to  Bungay,"  Warring- 
ton said,  and  rose  from  the  table.  This  threat  was  too  much 
for  Mr.  Bacon,  who  was  instantly'  ready  to  accede  to  an}'  rea- 
sonable proposal  of  Mr.  Warrington's,  and  finally  asked  his 
manager  what  those  proposals  were?  When  he  heard  that 
the  negotiation  only  related  as  yet  to  a  couple  of  ballads, 
which  Mr.  Warrington  offered  for  the  "Spring  Annual,"  Mr. 
Bacon  said,  "Law  bless  you,  give  him  a  cheque  directl}' ;  " 
and  with  this  paper  Warrington  went  out  to  his  friend,  and 
placed  it,  grinning,  in  Pen's  hands.  Pen  was  as  elated  as  if 
somebody  had  left  him  a  fortune.  He  ofltered  Warrington  a 
dinner  at  Richmond  instantl}'.  "  What  should  he  go  and  huy 
for  Laura  and  his  mother?     He  must  bu}'  something  for  them." 

"  They'll  like  the  book  better  than  anything  else,"  said  War- 
rington, "  with  the  young  one's  name  to  the  verses,  printed 
among  the  swells." 

"Thank  God!  thank  God!"  cried  Arthur,  "I  needn't  be 
a  charge  upon  the  old  mother.  I  can  pa}'  off  Laura  now.  I 
can  get  my  own  living.     I  can  make  m}'  own  way." 

"  I  can  many  the  grand  vizier's  daughter:  I  can  purchase 
a  house  in  Belgrave  Square  ;  I  can  build  a  fine  castle  in  the 
air;"  said  Warrington,  pleased  with  the  other's  exultation. 
"Well,  you  may  get  bread  and  cheese.  Pen:  ana  I  own  it 
tastes  well,  the  bread  which  you  earn  j'ourself." 

They  had  a  magnum  of  claret  at  dinner  at  the  club  that  da}^ 
at  Pen's  charges.  It  was  long  since  he  had  in<lulged  in  such  a 
luxur}',  but  Warrington  would  not  balk  him ;  and  they  drank 
together  to  the  health  of  the  "  Spring  Annual." 

It  never  rains  but  it  pours,  according  to  the  proverb ;  so 
very  speedily  another  chance  occurred,  b}-  which  Mr.  Pen  was 
to  be  helped  in  his  scheme  of  making  a  livelihood.  Warrington 
one  da}'  threw  him  a  letter  across  the  table,  which  was  brought 
bj'  a  printer's  boy,  "from  Captain  Shandon,  sir"  —  the  little 
emissary  said  :  and  then  went  and  fell  asleep  on  his  accustomed 


PENDENNIS.  323 

bench  in  the  passage.  He  paid  man}-  a  subsequent  visit  there> 
and  brought  many  a  message  to  Pen. 

"  F.  P.  Tuesday  Morning. 
"Mt  bear  Sir,  —  Bungay  will  be  here  to-day,  about  the  '  Pall  Mall 
Gazette.'     You  would  be  the  very  man  to  help  us  with  a  genuine  West-tind 

article,  —  j'ou   understand  —  dashing,   trenchant,    and   d aristocratic. 

Lady  Hipshaw  will  write  :  but  she's  not  much,  you  know,  and  we've  two 
lords ;  but  the  less  they  do  the  better.  We  nuist  have  you.  We'll  give 
you  your  own  terms,  and  we'll  make  a  hit  with  tlie  '  Gazette.' 

"  Shall  B.  come  and  see  you,  or  can  you  look  in  upon  me  here  ? 

"  Ever  yours, 

"  C.  S." 

"Some  more  opposition,"  "WaiTington  said,  when  Pen  had 
read  the  note.  ''Bungaj'  and  Bacon  are  at  daggers  drawn; 
each  married  the  sister  of  the  other,  and  they  were  for  some 
time  the  closest  friends  and  partners.  Hack  says  it  was  Mrs. 
Bungay  who  caused  all  the  mischief  between  the  two  ;  whereas 
Shandon,  who  reads  for  Bungay-  a  good  deal,  sa3's  Mrs.  Bacon 
did  the  business  ;  but  I  don't  know  which  is  right,  Peachum  or 
Lockit.  Since  they  have  separated,  it  is  a  furious  war  between 
the  two  pubhshers  ;  and  no  sooner  does  one  bring  out  a  book 
of  traA'els,  or  poems,  a  magazine  or  periodical,  Ciuarterh',  or 
monthly,  or  weekh',  or  annual,  but  the  rival  is  in  the  field  with 
something  similar.  I  have  heard  poor  Shandon  tell  with  great 
glee  how  he  made  Bungay  give  a  grand  dinner  at  Blackwall  to 
all  his  writers,  by  sayiug  that  Bacon  had  invited  his  corps  to 
an  entertainment  at  Greenwich.  When  Bungay  engaged  youi 
celebrated  friend  Mr.  "Wagg  to  edit  the  •  Londoner,'  Bacon 
straightway  rushed  off  and  secured  Mr.  Grindle  to  give  his 
name  to  the  '  Westminster  Magazine.'  When  Bacon  brought 
out  his  comic  Irish  novel  of  '  Barney  Brallaghan,'  off  went 
Bungay  to  Dublin,  and  produced  his  rollicking  Hibernian  storj' 
of  '  Loone}'  Mac  Twolter.'  When  Doctor  Hicks  brought  out 
his  '  Wanderings  in  Mesopotamia '  under  Bacon's  auspices, 
Bungay  produced  Professor  Sadiman's  '  Researches  in  Zahara  ; ' 
and  Bungay  is  i^ublishing  his  '  Pall  Mall  Gazette '  as  a  counter- 
poise to  Bacon's  '  Whitehall  Review.'  Let  us  go  and  hear 
about  the  '  Gazette.'  There  may  be  a  place  for  3'ou  in  it,  I*en, 
ni}'  boy.  We  will  go  and  see  Shandon.  We  are  sure  to  find 
him  at  home." 

"  Where  does  he  live?  "  asked  Pen. 

"  In  the  Fleet  Prison,"  Warrington  said.  "■  And  veiy  much 
-it  home  he  is  there,  too.     He  is  the  king  of  the  place." 


324  PENDENNIS. 

Pen  had  never  seen  this  scene  of  London  life,  and  walked 
with  no  small  interest  in  at  the  grim  gate  of  that  dismal  edifice. 
They  went  through  the  ante-room,  where  the  officers  and  jan- 
itors of  the  place  were  seated,  and  passing  in  at  the  wicket, 
entered  the  prison.  The  noise  and  the  crowd,  the  life  and  the 
shouting,  the  shabby  bustle  of  the  place,  struck  and  excited 
Pen.  People  moved  about  ceaselessly  and  restless,  like  caged 
animals  in  a  menagerie.  Men  were  playing  at  fives.  Others 
pacing  and  tramping :  this  one  in  colloquy  with  his  lawyer  in 
dingy  black  —  that  one  walking  sadly,  with  his  wife  by  his  side, 
and  a  child  on  his  arm.  Some  were  arrayed  in  tattered  dress- 
ing-gowns, and  had  a  look  of  rakish  fashion.  Everybody 
seemed  to  be  busy,  humming,  and  on  the  move.  Pen  felt  as 
if  he  choked  in  the  place,  and  as  if  the  door  being  locked  upon 
him  they  never  would  let  him  out. 

They  went  through  a  court  up  a  stone  staircase,  and  through 
passages  full  of  people,  and  noise,  and  cross  lights,  and  black 
doors  clapping  and  banging ;  —  Pen  feeling  as  one  does  in  a 
feverish  morning-dream.  At  last  the  same  little  runner  who 
had  brought  Shandon's  note,  and  had  followed  them  down 
Fleet  Street  munching  apples,  and  who  showed  the  wa}^  to 
the  two  gentlemen  through  the  prison,  said,  "This  is  the 
Captain's  door,"  and  Mr.  Shandon's  voice  from  within  bade 
them  enter. 

The  room,  though  bare,  was  not  uncheerful.  The  sun  was 
shining  in  at  the  window  —  near  which  sat  a  lady  at  work,  who 
had  been  gay  and  beautiful  once,  but  in  whose  faded  face  kind- 
ness and  tenderness  still  beamed.  Through  all  his  errors  and 
reckless  mishaps  and  misfortunes,  this  faithful  creature  adored 
her  husband,  and  thought  him  the  best  and  cleverest,  as  indeed 
he  was  one  of  the  kindest  of  men.  Nothing  ever  seemed  to 
disturb  the  sweetness  of  his  temper  ;  not  debts  ;  not  duns  :  not 
misery  :  not  the  bottle  :  not  his  wife's  unhappy  position,  or  his 
children's  ruined  chances.  He  was  perfectly  fond  of  wife  and 
children  after  his  fashion  :  he  always  had  the  kindest  words 
and  smiles  for  them,  and  ruined  them  with  the  utmost  sweet- 
ness of  temper.  He  never  could  refuse  himself  or  an}'  man  any 
enjoj'ment  which  his  money  could  purchase ;  he  would  share 
his  last  guinea  with  Jack  and  Tom,  and  we  ma}-  be  sure  he  had 
a  score  of  such  retainers.  He  would  sign  his  name  at  the  back 
of  any  man's  bill,  and  never  pay  any  debt  of  his  own.  He 
would  write  on  any  side,  and  attack  himself  or  another  man 
with  equal  indiflierence.  He  was  one  of  the  wittiest,  the  most 
amiable,  and  the  most  incorrigible  of  Irishmen.     Nobody  could 


PENDENNIS.  325 

help  liking  Charley  Shandon  who  saw  him  once,  and  those 
whom  he  ruined  could  scarcely  be  angry  with  him. 

When  Pen  and  Warrington  arrived,  the  Captain  (he  had 
been  in  an  Irish  militia  regiment  once,  and  the  title  remained 
with  him)  was  sitting  on  his  bed  in  a  torn  di'essing-gown,  with 
a  desk  on  his  knees,  at  which  he  was  scribbling  as  fast  as  his 
rapid  pen  could  write.  Slip  after  shp  of  paper  fell  off  the  desk 
wet  on  to  the  ground.  A  picture  of  his  children  was  hung  up 
over  his  bed,  and  the  youngest  of  them  was  pattering  about  the 
room. 

Opposite  the  Captain  sat  Mr.  Bungay,  a  portly  man  of 
stolid  coxmtenance,  with  whom  the  little  child  had  been  tr;y-ing 
a  conversation, 

"  Papa's  a  verj'  clever  man,"  said  she  ;  "  mamma  says  so." 

"  Oh,  very,"  said  Mr.  Bungay. 

"  And  3-ou're  a  very  rich  man,  Mr.  Bundy,"  cried  the  child, 
who  could  hardly  speak  plain. 

"  Mar}- !  "  said  Mamma,  from  her  work. 

''  Oh,  never  mind,"  Bungay  roared  out  with  a  gi*eat  laugh  ; 
"  no  hann  in  saving  I'm  rich  —  he,  he  — I  am  pretty  well  off, 
m}-  little  dear." 

''If  A'ou're  rich,  why  don't  you  take  papa  out  of  piz'n?" 
asked  the  child. 

Mamma  at  this  began  to  wipe  her  e3"es  with  the  work 
on  which  she  was  employed.  (The  poor  lady  had  hung 
curtains  up  in  the  room,  had  brought  the  children's  picture 
and  placed  it  there,  and  had  made  one  or  two  attempts  to 
ornament  it.)  Mamma  began  to  cr}- ;  Mr.  Bungay  turned 
red.  and  looked  fiercely  out  of  his  bloodshot  little  eyes  ;  Shan- 
don's  pen  went  on,  and  Pen  and  WaiTington  arrived  with  their 
knock. 

Captain  Shandon  looked  up  from  his  work.  "  How  do  j'ou 
do,  Mr.  Wanington?"  he  said.  "  I'll  speak  to  you  in  a  minute. 
Please  sit  down,  gentlemen,  if  you  can  find  places,"  and  away 
went  the  pen  again. 

Warrington  pulled  forward  an  old  portmanteau  —  the  only 
available  seat  —  and  sat  down  on  it  with  a  bow  to  Mrs.  Shan- 
don, and  a  nod  to  Bunga}- ;  the  child  came  and  looked  at  Pen 
solemnly ;  and  in  a  couple  of  minutes  the  swift  scribbling 
ceased ;  and  Shandon,  turning  the  desk  over  on  the  bed, 
stooped  and  picked  up  the  papers. 

"  I  think  this  will  do,"  said  he.  "  It's  the  prospectus  for  the 
^  Pall  Mall  Gazette.'  " 

"And   ht'ie's  the  money  for  it,"  Mr.  Bungay  said,  laying 


326  PENDENNIS. 

down  a  five-pound  note.     "  I'm  as  good  as  my  word,  I  am. 
AVhen  I  say  I'll  pa}-,  I  pay." 

"  Faith  that's  more  than  some  of  us  can  say,"  said  Shannon. 
and  he  eagerly  clapped  the  note  i\ito  his  pocket. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

WHICH    IS    PASSED    IN    THE    NEIGHBORHOOD    OF    LUDGATE    HILL. 

Our  imprisoned  Captain  announced,  in  smart  and  emphatic 
ianguage  in  his  prospectus,  that  the  time  had  come  at  last  when 
it  was  necessary  for  the  gentlemen  of  England  to  band  together 
in  defence  of  their  common  rights,  and  their  glorious  order, 
menaced  on  all  sides  by  foreign  revolutions,  by  intestine  radi- 
calism, by  the  artful  calumnies  of  mill-owners  and  cotton-lords, 
and  the  stupid  hostility  of  the  masses  whom  they  gulled  and 
led.  "  The  ancient  monarchy  was  insulted,"  the  Captain  said, 
"by  a  ferocious  republican  rabble.  The  Church  was  deserted 
by  envious  dissent,  and  undermined  by  stealthy  infidehty. 
The  good  institutions,  which  had  made  "our  country  glorious, 
and  the  name  of  English  Gentlemen  the  proudest  in'the  world, 
were  left  without  defence,  and  exposed  to  assault  and  contumely 
from  men  to  whom  no  sanctuary  was  sacred,  for  they  believed 
iu  nothing  hoi}' ;  no  history  veneral)le.  for  they  were  too  igno- 
rant to  have  heard  of  the  past ;  and  no  law  was  binding  which 
they  were  strong  enough  to  break,  when  their  leaders  gave  the 
signal  for  plunder.  It  was  because  the  kings  of  France  mis- 
trusted their  gentlemen,"  Mr.  Shandon  remarked,  "that  the 
monarchy  of  Saint  Louis  went  down  :  it  was  because  the  people 
of  England  still  beheved  in  their  gentlemen,  that  this  country 
encountered  and  overcame  the  greatest  enemy  a  nation  ever 
met :  it  was  because  tve  were  headed  by  gentlemen  that  the 
Eagles  retreated  before  us  from  the  Douro  to  the  Garonne  :  it 
was  a  gentleman  who  broke  the  line  at  Trafalgar,  and  swept 
the  plain  of  Waterloo." 

Bungay  nodded  his  head  in  a  knowing  manner,  and  winked 
his  eyes  when  the  Captain  came  to  the  Waterloo  passage :  and 
Warrington  burst  out  laughing. 

"You  see  how  our  venerable  friend  Bungay  is  affected," 
Shandon  said,  slih'  looking  up  from  his  papers  —  "that's  your 
true  sort  of  test.     I  have  used  the  Duke  of  Wellington  and  th^ 


PENDENNIS.  327 

battle  of  Waterloo  a  hundred  times-,  and  I  never  knew  th( 
Duke  to  fail." 

The  Captain  then  went  on  to  confess,  with  much  candor, 
that  up  to  the  present  time  the  gentlemen  of  England,  confident 
of  their  right,  and  careless  of  those  who  questioned  it,  had  left 
the  political  interest  of  their  order  as  they  did  the  management 
of  their  estates,  or  the  settlement  of  their  legal  affairs,  to  per- 
sons affected  to  each  peculiar  service,  and  had  permitted  their 
interests  to  be  represented  in  the  press  by  professional  proctors 
and  advocates.  That  time  Shandon  professed  to  consider  was 
now  gone  b}' :  the  gentlemen  of  England  must  be  their  own 
champions  :  the  declared  enemies  of  their  order  were  brave, 
strong,  numerous,  and  uncompromising.  The}'  must  meet  theii 
foes  in  the  field  :  they  must  not  be  belied  and  misrepresented 
b}'  hireling  advocates :  they  must  not  have  Grub  Street  pub- 
lishing Gazettes  from  Whitehall;  "that's  a  dig  at  Bacon'a 
people,  Mr.  Bunga}',"  said  Shandon,  turning  round  to  the 
publisher. 

Bunga}'  clapped  his  stick  on  the  floor.  "Hang  him,  pitcli 
into  him,  Capting,"  he  said  with  exultation  :  and  tmuiing  to 
Warrington,  wagged  his  dull  head  more  vehemently'  than  ever, 
and  said,  "For  a  slashing  article,  sir,  there's  nobody  like  the 
Capting — ^no-obod}'  like  him." 

The  prospectus-writer  went  on  to  sa}'  that  some  gentlemen, 
whose  names  were,  for  obvious  reasons,  not  brought  before  the 
public  (at  which  Mr.  Warrington  began  to  laugh  again),  had 
determined  to  bring  forward  a  journal,  of  which  the  principles 
were  so  and  so.  "These  men  are  proud  of  their  order,  and 
anxious  to  uphold  it,"  cried  out  Captain  Shandon,  flourishing 
his  paper  with  a  grin.  "  They  are  loyal  to  their  sovereign,  by 
faithful  conviction  and  ancestral  allegiance  ;  they  love  their 
Church,  where  the}'  would  have  their  children  worship,  and  for 
which  their  forefathers  bled  ;  they  love  their  country,  and  would 
keep  it  what  the  gentlemen  of  England^ yes,  the  gentlemen  of 
England  (we'll  have  that  in  large  caps.,  Bungay,  m}'  boy)  have 
made  it  —  the  greatest  and  freest  in  the  world  :  and  as  the 
names  of  some  of  them  are  appended  to  the  deed  which  secured 
our  liberties  at  Runnymede  —  " 

"  Wliat's  that?"  asked  Mr.  Bunga}'. 

"An  ancestor  of  mine  sealed  it  with  his  sword  hilt,"  Pen 
said,  with  great  gravity. 

"  It's  the  Habeas  Corpus,  Mr.  Bungay,"  Warrington  said, 
on  which  the  publisher  answered,  "  All  right,  I  dare  say,"  and 
vawned,  thouaii  he  said,  "  Go  on,  Capting." 


b28  PENDENNIS. 

—  "at  Ruiinymede  ;  the^'  are  ready  to  defend  that  freedoa 
to-day  with  sword  and  pen,  and  now,  as  then,  to  rally  round 
the  old  laws  and  liberties  of  England." 

'"  Bra3'vo  !  "  cried  Warrington.  The  little  child  stood  won« 
dering ;  the  lady  was  working  silently,  and  looking  with  fond 
admiration.  "  Come  here,  little  Mary,"  said  Warrington,  and 
patted  the  child's  fair  curls  with  his  large  hand.  But  she 
shrank  back  from  his  rough  caress,  and  preferred  to  go  and 
take  refuge  at  Pen's  knee,  and  play  with  his  fine  watch-chain : 
and  Pen  was  very  much  pleased  that  she  came  to  him ;  for  he 
was  ver}^  soft-hearted  and  simple,  though  he  concealed  his  gen- 
tleness under  a  shy  and  pompous  demeanor.  So  she  clambered 
up  on  his  lap,  whilst  her  father  continued  to  read  his  pro- 
gramme, 

"You  were  laughing,"  the  Captain  said  to  Warrington, 
"about  'the  obvious  reasons'  which  I  mentioned.  Now,  I'll 
show  ye  what  the}-  are,  ye  unbelieving  heathen.  '  We  have 
said,' "  he  went  on,  "  '  that  we  cannot  give  the  names  of  the 
parties  engaged  in  this  undertaking,  and  that  there  were  obvi- 
ous reasons  for  that  concealment.  We  number  influential 
friends  in  both  Houses  of  the  Senate,  and  have  secured  allies  in 
ever}'  diplomatic  circle  in  Europe.  Our  sources  of  intelligence 
are  such  as  cannot,  b}-  any  possibility,  be  made  public  —  and, 
indeed,  such  as  no  other  London  or  European  journal  could,  bj' 
any  chance,  acquire.  But  this  we  are  free  to  say,  that  the 
very  earliest  information  connected  with  the  movement  of 
English  and  Continental  politics,  will  be  found  only  in  the  col- 
umns of  the  "Pall  Mall  Gazette."  The  Statesman  and  the 
Capitalist,  the  Country  Gentleman,  and  the  Divine,  will  be 
amongst  our  readers,  because  our  writers  are  amongst  them. 
We  address  ourselves  to  the  higher  circles  of  society :  we  care 
not  to  disown  it  —  the  "  Pall  Mall  Gazette"  is  written  by  gen- 
tlemen for  gentlemen  ;  its  conductors  speak  to  the  classes  in 
which  they  live  and  were  born.  The  field-preacher  has  his 
journal,  the  radical  free-thinker  has  his  journal :  why  should  the 
Gentlemen  of  England  be  unrepresented  in  the  Press  ? ' " 

Mr.  Shandon  then  went  on  with  much  modesty  to  descant 
upon  the  literary  and  fashionable  departments  of  the  "  Pall 
Mall  Gazette,"  which  were  to  be  conducted  by  gentlemen  of 
acknowledged  reputation ;  men  famous  at  the  Universities  (at 
which  Mr.  Pendennis  could  scarcely  help  laughing  and  blush- 
ing) ,  known  at  the  Clubs  and  of  the  Societ}'  which  the}'  de- 
scribed. He  pointed  out  delicately  to  advertisers  that  thea* 
would  be  no  such  medium  as  the  "  Pall  Mall  Gazette  "  for  giv 


PENDENNIS.  329 

ing  publicity  to  their  sales  ;  and  he  eloquently  ciiUed  upon  Uie 
nobilit}'  of  England,  the  baronetage  of  England,  the  revered 
clerg}'  Oi' England,  the  bar  of  England,  the  matrons,  the  daugh- 
ters, the  homes  and  hearths  of  England,  to  rally  round  the  good 
old  cause  ;  and  Bungay  at  the  conclusion  of  the  reading  woke 
up  from  a  second  snooze  in  which  he  had  indulged  himself,  and 
again  said  it  was  all  right. 

The  reading  of  the  prospectus  concluded,  the  gentlemen 
present  entered  into  some  details  regarding  tlie  political  and 
literary  management  of  the  paper,  and  Mr.  Bungay  sat  by 
listening  and  nodding  his  head,  as  if  he  understood  what  was 
the  subject  of  their  conversation,  and  approved  of  their  opin- 
ions. Bungay's  opinions,  in  truth,  were  pretty  simple.  He 
thought  the  Captain  could  write  the  best  smashing  article  in 
England.  He  wanted  the  opposition  house  of  Bacon  smashed, 
and  it  was  his  opinion  that  the  Captain  could  do  that  business. 
If  the  Captain  had  written  a  letter  of  Junius  on  a  sheet  of 
paper,  or  copied  a  part  of  the  Church  Catechism,  Mr.  Bungay 
would  have  been  perfectl}'  contented,  and  have  considered  that 
the  article  was  a  smashing  article.  And  he  pocketed  the  papers 
with  the  greatest  satisfaction :  and  he  not  only  paid  for  the 
MS.,  as  we  have  seen,  but  he  called  little  Mary  to  him,  and 
gave  her  a  penny  as  he  went  away. 

The  reading  of  the  manuscript  over,  the  party  engaged  in 
general  conversation,  Shandon  leading  with  a  jaunty  fashionable 
air  in  compliment  to  the  two  guests  who  sat  with  him,  and  who, 
by  their  appearance  and  manner,  he  presumed  to  be  persons  of 
the  beau  monde.  He  knew  very  little  indeed  of  the  great  world, 
l)ut  he  had  seen  it,  and  made  the  most  of  what  he  had  seen. 
He  spoke  of  the  characters  of  the  da}^  and  great  personages  of 
the  fashion,  with  easy  familiaritj^  and  jocular  allusions,  as  if  it 
was  his  habit  to  live  amongst  them.  He  told  anecdotes  of  their 
private  life,  and  of  conversations  he  had  had,  and  entertain- 
ments at  which  he  had  been  present,  and  at  which  such  aud| 
such  a  thing  occurred.  Pen  was  amused  to  hear  the  shabby' 
prisoner  in  a  tattered  dressing-gown  talking  glibly  about  the 
great  of  the  land.  Mrs.  Shandon  was  always  delighted  when 
her  husband  told  these  tales,  and  believed  in  them  fondly  every 
one.  She  did  not  want  to  mingle  in  the  fashionable  world  her- 
self, she  was  not  clever  enough  ;  but  the  great  Society'  was  the 
very  places  for  her  Charles :  he  shone  in  it :  he  was  respected  in 
it.  Indeed,  Shandon  had  once  been  asked  to  dinner  b}'  the 
Earl  of  X  ;  his  wife  treasured  the  invitation-card  in  her  work- 
Lox  at  that  verj  d&y. 


330  PENDENNIS. 

Mr.  Bungay  presently  had  enough  of  this  talk  and  got  up  to 
take  leave,  whereupon  Warruigton  and  Pen  rose  to  depart  with 
the  publisher,  though  the  latter  would  have  liked  to  stay  to 
make  a  further  acquaintance  with  this  family,  who  interested 
him  and  touched  him.  He  said  something  about  hoping  for 
permission  to  repeat  his  visit,  upon  wliicli  Shandon,  with  a  rue- 
ful grin,  said  he  was  always  to  be  found  at  home,  and  sliould 
be  delighted  to  see  Mr.  Pennington. 

"I'll  see  you  to  my  park-gate,  gentlemen,"  said  Captain 
Shandon,  seizing  his  hat,  in  spite  of  a  deprecatory  look,  and  a 
faint  cry  of  "  Charles  "  from  Mrs.  Shandon.  And  the  Captain, 
in  shabby  slippers,  shuffled  out  before  his  guests,  leading  the 
way  through  the  dismal  passages  of  the  prison.  His  hand  was 
already  fiddling  with  his  waistcoat  pocket,  where  Bungay's  five- 
pound  note  was,  as  he  took  leave  of  the  three  gentlemen  at  the 
wicket ;  one  of  them,  Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis,  being  greatly  re- 
lieved when  he  was  out  of  the  horrid  place,  and  again  freely 
treading  the  flags  of  Farringdon  Street. 

Mrs.  Shandon  sadly  went  on  with  her  work  at  the  window 
looking  into  the  court.  She  saw  Shandon  with  a  couple  of  men 
at  his  heels  run  rapidly  in  the  direction  of  the  prison  tavern. 
She  had  hoped  to  have  had  him  to  dinner  herself  that  day : 
there  was  a  piece  of  meat,  and  some  salad  in  a  basin,  on  the 
ledge  outside  of  the  window  of  their  room,  which  she  had  ex- 
pected that  she  and  httle  Mary  were  to  share  with  the  child's 
father.  But  there  was  no  chance  of  that  now.  He  would  be 
in  that  tavern  until  the  hours  for  closing  it ;  then  he  would  go 
and  play  at  cards  or  drink  in  some  other  man's  room,  and  come 
back  silent,  with  glazed  eyes,  reeling  a  little  in  his  walk,  that 
his  wife  might  nurse  him.  Oh,  what  varieties  of  pain  do  we 
not  make  our  women  suffer  ! 

So  Mrs.  Shandon  went  to  the  cupboard,  and,  in  lieu  of  a 
dinner,  made  herself  some  tea.  And  in  those  varieties  of  pain 
of  which  we  spoke  anon,  what  a  part  of  confidante  has  that 
poor  teapot  played  ever  since  the  kindly  plant  was  introduced 
among  us  !  What  myriads  of  women  have  cried  over  it,  to  be 
sure  !  What  sick-beds  it  has  smoked  by  !  What  fevered  lips 
have  received  refreshment  from  out  of  it !  Nature  meant  very 
gently  b}'  women  when  she  made  that  tea-plant.  With  a  little 
thought  what  a  series  of  pictures  and  groups  the  fancy  may 
conjure  up  and  assemble  round  the  teapot  and  cup.  Melissa 
and  Saccharissa  are  tallying  love  secrets  over  it.  Poor  Polly 
has  it  and  her  lover's  letters  upon  the  table  ;  his  letters  who  was 
her  lover  yesterday,  and  whenjt^vvas  with  pleasure,  not  despair, 


PENDENNIS.  331 

Bhe  wept  over  them.  Mary  comes  tripping  noiselessly  into  her 
mother's  bedroom,  bearing  a  cup  of  the  consoler  to  the  widow 
who  will  take  no  other  food.  Ruth  is  busy  concocting  it  for 
her  husband,  who  is  coming  home  from  the  harvest  field  —  one 
could  fill  a  page  with  hints  for  such  pictures;  —  finallj',  Mrs. 
Shandon  and  little  Mary  sit  down  and  drink  their  tea  together, 
while  the  Captain  goes  out  and  takes  his  pleasure.  She  cares 
for  nothing  else  but  that,  when  her  husband  is  awa}-. 

A  gentleman  with  whom  we  are  already  slightly  acquainted, 
Mr.  Jack  Finucane,  a  townsman  of  Captain  Shandon's,  found 
the  Captain's  wife  and  little  Mary  (for  whom  Jack  alwaj's 
brought  a  sweetmeat  in  his  pocket)  over  this  meal.  Jack 
thought  Shandon  the  greatest  of  .created  geniuses,  had  had  one 
or  two  helps  from  the  good-natured  prodigal,  who  had  always 
a  kind  word,  and  sometimes  a  guinea  for  any  friend  in  need ; 
and  never  missed  a  day  in  seeing  his  patron.  He  was  ready 
to  run  Shandon's  errands  and  transact  his  mone3--business  with 
publishers  and  newspaper  editors,  duns,  creditors,  holders  of 
Shandon's  acceptances,  gentlemen  disposed  to  speculate  in 
those  securities,  and  to  transact  the  thousand  little  affairs  of  an 
embarrassed  Irish  gentleman.  I  never  knew  an  embarrassed 
Irish  gentleman  3"et,  but  he  had  an  aide-de-camp  of  his  owi> 
nation,  likewise  in  cu'cumstauces  of  pecuniary  discomfort. 
That  aide-de-camp  has  subordinates  of  his  own,  who  again  may 
have  other  insolvent  dependants  —  all  through  his  life  our  Cap- 
tain marched  at  the  head  of  a  ragged  staflT,  who  shared  in  the 
rough  fortunes  of  their  chieftain. 

"  He  won't  have  that  five-pound  note  very  long,  I  bet  a 
guinea,"  Mr.  Bunga}"  said  of  the  Captain,  as  he  and  his  two 
companions  walked  away  from  the  prison  ;  and  the  publisher 
judged  rightlv,  for  when  Mrs.  Shandon  came  to  empty  her 
husband's  pockets,  she  found  but  a  couple  of  shillings,  and  a 
few  halfpence  out  of  the  morning's  remittance.  Shandon  had 
given  a  pound  to  one  follower ;  had  sent  a  leg  of  mutton  and 
potatoes  and  beer  to  an  acquaintance  in  the  poor  side  of  the 
prison  ;  had  paid  an  outstanding  bill  at  the  tavern  where  he 
had  changed  his  five-pound  note  ;  had  had  a  dinner  with  two 
friends  there,  to  whom  he  lost  sundry  half-crowns  at  cards 
afterwards  ;  so  that  the  night  left  him  as  poor  as  the  morning 
had  found  him. 

The  pulilisher  and  the  two  gentlemen  had  had  some  talk 
together  after  quitting  Shandon,  and  Warrington  reiterated  to 
Bungay  wiuit  he  had  said  to  his  rival,  Bacon,  viz.,  that  Pen 
was  a  high  fellow,  of  great  genius,  and  what  was  more,  welJ 


332  TENDENNIS. 

with  the  great  world,  and  related  to  "  no  end"  of  the  peerage. 
Bungay  replied  that  he  should  be  happy  to  have  dealings  witli 
Mr.  Pendennis,  and  hoped  to  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  both 
gents  to  cut  mutton  with  him  before  long,  and  so,  with  mutual 
politeness  and  protestations,  they  parted. 

"  It  is  hard  to  see  such  a  man  as  Shandon,"  Pen  said,  musing, 
and  talking  that  night  over  the  sight  which  he  had  witnessed, 
"  of  accomplishments  so  multifarious,  and  of  such  an  undoubted 
talent  and  humor,  an  inmate  of  a  gaol  for  half  his  time,  and  a 
bookseller's  hanger-on  when  out  of  prison." 

"  I  am  a  bookseller's  hanger-on  —  3'ou  are  going  to  try  youi 
paces  as  a  hack,"  Warrington  said  with  a  laugh.  "  We  are 
all  hacks  upon  some  road  or  other.  I  would  rather  be  myself, 
than  Paley  our  neighbor  in  chambers  :  who  has  as  much  en- 
jo^'ment  of  his  life  as  a  mole.  A  deuced  deal  of  undeserved 
compassion  has  been  thrown  awa}'  upon  what  jon  call  3'our 
bookseller's  drudge." 

"  Much  solitary  pipes  and  ale  make  a  cynic  of  you,"  Pen 
said.  "  You  are  a  Diogenes  by  a  beer-barrel,  Warrington. 
No  man  shall  tell  me  that  a  man  of  genius,  as  Shandon  is, 
ought  to  be  driven  b}^  such  a  vulgar  slave  driver  as  yonder  Mr. 
Bungay,  whom  we  have  just  left,  who  fattens  on  the  profits  of 
the  other's  brains,  and  enriches  himself  out  of  his  journe3man's 
labor.  It  makes  me  indignant  to  see  a  gentleman  the  serf  of 
such  a  creature  as  that,  of  a  man  who  can't  speak  the  language 
that  he  lives  by,  who  is  not  fit  to  black  JShandon's  boots." 

"  So  j'ou  have  begun  already  to  gird  at  the  publishers,  and 
to  take  your  side  amongst  our  order.  Bravo,  Pen,  my  boy  !  " 
Warrington  answered,  laughing  still.  "  What  have  you  got  to 
saj'  against  Bunga3''s  relations  with  Shandon?  Was  it  the 
publisher,  think  you,  who  sent  the  author  to  prison?  Is  it 
Bungay  who  is  tippling  away  the  five-pound  note  which  we  saw 
iust  now,  or  Shandon  ?  " 

"Misfortune  drives  a  man  into  bad  company,"  Pen  said. 
"It  is  eas3'  to  cr3'  '  Fie  ! '  against  a  poor  fellow  who  has  no 
societ3"  but  such  as  he  finds  in  a  prison  ;  and  no  resource 
except  forgetfulness  and  the  bottle.  We  must  deal  kindly  with 
the  eccentricities  of  genius,  and  remember  that  the  very  ardor 
and  enthusiasm  of  temperament  which  makes  the  author  de- 
lightful often  leads  the  man  astray." 

"A  fiddlestick  about  men  of  genius!"  Warrington  cried 
out,  who  was  a  ver3'  severe  moralist  upon  »ome  points,  though 
possibly  a  vor}'  bad  practitioner.     "  I  deny  that  there  are  so 


PENDENNIS.  333 

many  geniuses  as  people  who  whimper  about  the  fate  of  men  of 
letters  assert  there  are.  There  are  thousands  of  clever  fellows  in 
the  world  who  could,  if  they  would,  turn  verses,  write  articles, 
read  books,  and  deliver  a  judgment  upon  them  ;  the  talk  of 
professional  critics  and  writers  is  not  a  whit  more  brilhant,  or 
profound,  or  amusing,  than  that  of  an}-  other  societ}'  of  edu- 
cated people.  If  a  lawyer,  or  a  soldier,  or  a  pai'son,  outruns 
his  income,  and  does  not  pay  his  bills,  he  must  go  to  gaol ; 
and  an  author  must  go,  too.  If  an  author  fuddles  himself,  I 
don't  know  wM'  he  should  be  let  off  a  headache  the  next  morn- 
ing,—  if  he  orders  a  coat  from  the  tailor's,  whj- he  shouldn't 
pay  for  it." 

"  I  would  give  him  more  money  to  buy  coats,"  said  Pen, 
smiling.  "  I  suppose  I  should  like  to  belong  to  a  well-dressed 
profession.  I  protest  against  that  wretch  of  a  middle-man 
whom  I  see  between  Genius  and  his  gi-eat  landlord,  the  Public, 
and  who  stops  more  than  half  of  the  laborer's  earnings  and 
fame." 

'•  I  am  a  prose  laborer,"  "Warrington  said  :  "jou,  my  boy, 
are  a  poet  in  a  small  way,  and  so,  I  suppose,  consider  you 
are  authorized  to  be  flighty.  What  is  it  you  want?  Do  you 
want  a  body  of  capitalists  that  shall  be  forced  to  purchase  the 
works  of  all  authors,  who  ma}-  present  themselves,  manuscript 
in  hand?  Ever3'body  who  writes  his  epic,  every  driveller  who 
can  or  can't  spell,  and  produces  his  novel  or  his  traged}',  — 
are  the}'  aU  to  come  and  find  a  bag  of  sovereigns  in  exchange 
for  their  worthless  reams  of  paper?  Who  is  to  settle  what  is 
good  or  bad,  salable  or  otherwise?  Will  you  give  the  buyer 
leave,  in  fine,  to  purchase  or  not?  Wh}',  sir,  when  Johnson  sat 
behind  the  screen  at  Saint  John's  Gate,  and  took  his  dinner  apart, 
because  he  was  too  shabby  and  poor  to  join  the  literary  bigwigs 
who  were  regaling  themselves  round  Mr.  Cave's  best  table-cloth, 
the  tradesman  was  doing  him  no  wrong.  You  couldn't  force 
the  publisher  to  recognize  the  man  of  genius  in  the  young  man 
who  presented  himself  before  him,  ragged,  gaunt,  and  hungry. 
Rags  are  not  a  proof  of  genius  ;  whereas  capital  is  absolute, 
as  tames  go,  and  is  perforce  the  bargain-master.  It  has  a  right 
to  deal  with  the  literary  inventor  as  witli  any  other ;  —  if  1 
produce  a  novelt}-  in  the  book  trade,  I  nuist  do  the  best  I  can 
with  it ;  but  I  can  no  more  force  Mr.  jM array  to  purchase  my 
book  of  travels  or  sermons,  tlian  I  can  compel  Mr.  Tattersall 
to  give  me  a  hundred  guineas  for  1113'  horse.  I  may  have  my 
own  ideas  of  the  value  of  rny  Pegasus,  and  think  him  the  most 
wonderful  of  animals  ;  but  tlie  dealer  lias  a  right  to  his  opinion, 


334  PENDENNIS. 

too,  and  may  want  a  lady's  horse,  or  a  cob  for  a  heavy  timid 
rider,  or  a  sound  hack  for  the  road,  and  my  beast  won't  suit 
him." 

"You  deal  in  metaphors,  Warrington,"  Pen  said;  "but 
you  rightly  say  that  you  are  very  prosaic.  Poor  Shandon ! 
There  is  something  about  the  kindness  of  that  man,  and  the 
gentleness  of  that  sweet  creature  of  a  wife,  which  touches  me 
profoundly.  I  like  him,  I  am  afraid,  better  than  a  better 
man." 

"  And  so  do  I,"  Warrington  said.  "  Let  us  give  him  the 
benefit  of  our  sj'mpathy,  and  the  pity  that  is  due  to  his  weak- 
ness :  though  I  fear  that  sort  of  kindness  would  be  resented  as 
contempt  b}'  a  more  high-minded  man.  You  see  he  takes  his 
consolation  along  with  his  misfortune,  and  one  generates  the 
other  or  balances  it,  as  is  the  wa}'  of  the  world.  He  is  a  pris- 
oner, but  he  is  not  unhappy." 

"  His  genius  sings  within  his  prison  bais,"  Pen  said. 

"  Yes,"  WaiTington  said,  bitterh^ ;  "  Shandon  accommodates 
himself  to  a  cage  pretty  well.  He  ought  to  be  wretched,  but 
he  has  Jack  and  Tom  to  drink  with,  and  that  consoles  him : 
he  might  have  a  high  place,  but  as  he  can't,  why  he  can  drink 
with  Tom  and  Jack  ;  —  he  might  be  providing  for  his  wife  and 
children,  but  Thomas  and  John  have  got  a  bottle  of  brandy 
which  they  want  him  to  taste  ;  — he  might  pay  poor  Snip,  the 
tailor,  the  twenty  pounds  which  the  poor  devil  wants  for  his 
landlord,  but  John  and  Thomas  lay  theu'  hands  upon  his  purse  ; 
—  and  so  he  drinks  whilst  his  tradesman  goes  to  gaol  and  his 
family  to  ruin.  Let  us  pity  the  misfortunes  of  genius,  and  con- 
spire against  the  publishing  tyrants  who  oppress  men  of  letters." 

"What!  are  3'ou  going  to  have  another  glass  of  brand}'- 
and-water?"  Pen  said,  with  a  humorous  look.  It  was  at  the 
Back  Kitchen  that  the  above  philosophical  conversation  took 
place  between  the  two  young  men. 

Warrington  began  to  laugh  as  usual.  "  Video  meliora  probo- 
i-jiie — I  mean,  bring  it  me  hot,  with  sugar,  John,"  he  said  to 
the  waiter. 

**  I  would  have  some  more,  too,  only  1  don't  want  it,"  saic? 
Pen.  "  It  does  not  seem  to  me,  Warrington,  that  we  are  much 
vietter  than  our  neighbors."  And  Warrington's  last  glass  iU'v- 
ing  been  despatched,  the  pair  returned  to  their  chambers. 

They  found  a  couple  of  notes  in  the  letter-box,  on  tueir 
return,  which  had  been  sent  by  their  acquaintance  of  the  morn- 
ing, Mr.  Bungay.  That  hospitable  gentleman  presented  his 
ccmplimer.tg  to  eacli  of  the  gentiemen,  and  ?;f.<iuested  the  pleas* 


PENDENNIS.  335 

nre  of  their  company  at  dinner  on  an  early  da}',  to  meet  a  few 
literary  friends. 

••  We  shall  have  a  grand  spread,"  said  Warrington.  "We 
shall  meet  all  Bungay's  corps." 

"  All  except  poor  Shandon,"  said  Pen,  nodding  a  good  night 
to  his  friend,  and  he  went  into  his  own  little  room.  The  events 
and  acquaintances  of  the  day  had  excited  him  a  good  deal,  and 
he  lay  for  some  time  awake  thinking  over  them,  as  AVarring- 
ton's  vigorous  and  regular  snore  fi-om  the  neighboring  apart- 
ment pronounced  that  that  gentleman  was  engaged  in  deep 
slumber. 

Is  it  true,  thought  Pendennis,  lying  on  his  bed  and  gazing 
at  a  bright  moon  without,  that  lighted  up  a  corner  of  his  dress- 
ing-table, and  the  frame  of  a  little  sketch  of  Fairoaks  drawn  by 
Laiura,  that  hung  over  his  drawers  —  is  it  true  that  I  am  going 
to  earn  my  bread  at  last,  and  with  my  pen  ?  that  I  shall  im- 
poverish the  dear  mother  no  longer ;  and  that  I  may  gain  a 
name  and  reputation  in  the  world,  perhaps?  These  are  wel- 
come if  they  come,  thought  the  young  \asionary,  laughing  and 
blushing  to  himself,  though  alone  and  in  the  night,  as  he  thought 
how  dearly  he  would  relish  honor  and  fame  if  they  could  bo 
his.  If  fortune  favors  me,  I  laud  her ;  if  she  frowns,  I  resign 
her.  I  pray  Heaven  I  may  be  honest  if  I  fail,  or  if  I  succeed. 
I  pra}'  Heaven  I  ma}'  tell  the  truth  as  far  as  I  know  it :  that  I 
mayn't  swei-ve  from  it  through  flattery,  or  interest,  or  personal 
enmit}',  or  part>'  prejudice.  Dearest  old  mother,  what  a  pride 
will  you  have,  if  I  can  do  anything  worthy  of  our  name  !  and 
you,  Laura,  you  won't  scor:^,  me  as  the  worthless  idler  and 
spendthrift,  when  you  see  that  I  —  when  I  have  achieved  a  — 
psha  !  what  an  Alnaschar  I  am  because  I  have  made  five  pounds 
by  my  poems,  and  am  engaged  to  write  half  a  dozen  articles 
for  a  newspaper.  He  went  on  with  these  musings,  more  happy 
and  hopeful,  and  in  a  humbler  frame  of  mind,  than  he  had  felt 
to  be  for  many  a  day.  He  thought  over  the  errors  and  idleness 
the  passions,  extravagances,  disappointments,  of  his  wayward 
youth :  he  got  up  from  the  bed  :  threw  open  the  window,  and 
looked  out  into  the  night:  and  tlien,  by  some  impulse,  which 
we  hope  was  a  good  one,  he  went  up  and  kissed  the  picture  of 
Fairoaks,  and  flinging  himself  down  on  his  knees  by  the  bed, 
remained  for  some  time  in  that  posture  of  hope  and  submission. 
When  he  rose,  it  was  with  streaming  eyes.  He  had  found  him- 
self repeating,  mechanically,  some  little  words  which  he  had 
been  accustoiHed  to  repeat_as_a  child  at  his  mother's  side,  after 


336  PENDENNIS. 

the  saying  of  which  she  would  softly  take  liim  to  liis  bed 
and  close  the  ciu'tains  round  him,  hushing  him  with  a  bene- 
diction. 

The  next  day,  Mr.  Pidgeon,  their  attendant,  brought  in  a 
large  brown  paper  pax'cel,  directed  to  G.  V»'"arrington,  Esq., 
with  Mr.  Trotter's  compliments,  and  a  note  which  WarringtOB 
read. 

"  Pen,  you  beggar ! "  roared  Warrington  to  Pen,  who  was  in 
his  own  room. 

"  Hullo !  "  sung  out  Pen. 

"  Come  here,  you're  wanted,"  cried  the  other,  and  Pen  came 
out.     "  What  is  it?"  said  he. 

"  Catch!"  cried  Warrington,  and  flung  the  parcel  at  Pen's 
head,  who  would  have  been  knocked  down  had  he  not  caught  it. 

"  It's  books  for  review  for  the  '  Pall  Mall  Gazette  ;'  pitch 
into  'em,"  Warrington  said.  As  for  Pen,  he  never  had  been  so 
delighted  in  his  life  :  his  hand  trembled  as  he  cut  the  string  of 
the  packet,  and  beheld  within  a  smart  set  of  new  neat  calico- 
bound  books,  travels,  and  novels,  and  poems. 

"Sport  the  oak,  Pidgeon,"  said  he.  "  Pm  not  at  home  to 
an3'body  to-day."  And  he  flung  into  his  easy-chair,  and  kardly 
gave  himself  time  to  drink  his  tea,  so  eager  was  he  to  begin  to 
read  and  to  review. 


CHAPTER  XXXni. 

IN  WHICH   THE   HISTORY   STILL   HOVERS   ABOUT  FLEET   STREET. 

Captain  Shandon,  urged  on  by  his  wife,  who  seldom  med- 
dled in  business  matters,  had  stipulated  that  John  Finucane, 
Esquire,  of  the  Upper  Temple,  should  be  appointed  sub-editor 
of  the  forthcoming  "  Pall  Mall  Gazette,"  and  this  post  was 
accordingl}^  conferred  upon  Mr.  Finucane  by  the  spirited  pro- 
prietor of  the  Journal.  Indeed  he  deserved  any  kindness  at 
the  hands  of  Shandon,  so  fondly-  attached  was  he,  as  we  have 
said,  to  the  Captain  and  Ms  family,  and  so  eager  to  do  him  a 
service.  It  was  in  Finucane's  chambers  that  Shandon  used  in 
former  days  to  hide  when  danger  was  near  and  bailiflTs  abroad : 
until  at  length  his  hiding-place  was  known,  and  the  sherifl["s 
officers  came  as  regularly  to  wait  for  the  Captain  on  Finucane's 
staircase  as  at  his  own  door.    It  was  to  Finucane's  chambers  that 


PENDENNIS.  337 

poor  Mrs.  Shandon  came  often  and  often  to  explain  her  troubles 
and  gi'iefs,  and  devise  means  of  rescue  for  her  adored  Captain. 
Many  a  meal  did  Finucane  fm-nish  for  her  and  the  child  there. 
It  was  an  honor  to  his  little  rooms  to  be  visited  b}'  such  a  lady  ; 
and  as  she  went  down  the  staircase  with  her  veil  over  her  face, 
Fin  would  lean  over  the  balustrade  looking  after  her,  to  see  that 
no  Temple  Lovelace  assailed  her  upon  the  road,  perhaps  hop- 
ing that  some  rogue  might  be  induced  to  waylay  her,  so  that 
he.  Fin,  might  have  the  pleasure  of  rushing  to  her  rescue,  and 
breaking  the  rascal's  bones.  It  was  a  sincere  pleasure  to  Mrs. 
Shandon  when  the  arrangements  were  made  by  which  her  kind 
honest  champion  was  appointed  her  husband's  aide-de-camp  in 
the  newspaper. 

He  would  have  sat  with  JMi-s.  Shandon  as  late  as  the  prison 
hours  permitted,  and  had  indeed  many  a  time  witnessed  the 
putting  to  bed  of  little  Mar}-,  who  occupied  a  crib  in  the  room  ; 
and  to  whose  evening  prayers  that  God  might  bless  papa,  Fin- 
ucane, although  of  the  Romish  faith  himself,  had  said  Amen 
with  a  great  deal  of  sympathy  —  but  he  had  an  appointment 
with  Mr.  Bungay  regarding  the  affaii's  of  the  paper  which  thev 
were  to  discuss  over  a  quiet  dinner.  So  he  went  away  at  six 
o'clock  from  Mrs.  Shandon,  but  made  his  accustomed  appear- 
ance at  the  Fleet  Prison  next  morning,  having  aiTayed  him- 
self in  his  best  clothes  and  ornaments,  which,  though  cheap 
as  to  cost,  were  ver^-  brilliant  as  to  color  and  appearance,  and 
having  in  his  pocket  four  pounds  two  shillings,  being  the  amount 
of  his  week's  salar\'  at  the  "  Dail}-  Journal,"  minus  two  shil- 
lings expended  b}'  him  in  the  purchase  of  a  pair  of  gloves  on 
his  way  to  the  prison. 

He  had  cut  his  mutton  with  Mr.  Bungay,  as  the  latter  gen- 
tleman phrased  it,  and  Mr.  Trotter,  Bunga3''s  reader  and  liter- 
ary man  of  business,  at  Dick's  Coffee-House  on  the  previous 
day,  and  entered  at  large  into  his  views  respecting  the  conduct 
of  the  "  Pall  Mall  Gazette."  In  a  masterly  manner  he  had 
pointed  out  what  should  be  the  sub-editorial  arrangements  of 
the  paper :  what  should  be  the  type  for  the  various  articles : 
who  should  report  the  markets  ;  who  the  turf  and  ring ;  who 
the  Church  intelligence  ;  and  who  the  fashionable  chit-cliat.  He 
was  acquainted  with  gentlemen  engaged  in  cultivating  these 
various  departments  of  knowledge,  and  in  communicating  them 
afterwards  to  the  public  —  in  fine.  Jack  Finucane  was,  as 
Shandon  had  said  of  him,  and,  as  he  proudly  owned  himself  to 
be,  one  of  the  best  sub-editors  of  a  paper  in  London.  He 
knew  the  weekly'  earnings  f>f  every  man  connected  with  the 

22 


338  PENDENNIS. 

Press,  and  was  up  to  a  thousand  dodges,  or  ingenious  economic 
contrivances,  by  which  money  could  be  saved  to  spirited  cap- 
itaUsts,  who  were  going  to  set  up  a  paper.  He  at  once  dazzled 
and  mystified  Mr.  Bungay,  who  was  slow  of  comprehension, 
by  the  rapidity  of  the  calculations  which  he  exhibited  on  paper, 
as  they  sat  in  the  box.  And  Bungay  afterwards  owned  to 
his  subordinate  Mr.  Trotter,  that  that  Irishman  seemed  a  clever 
fellow. 

And  now  ha-sang  succeeded  in  making  this  impression  upon 
Mr.  Bungay,  the  faithful  fellow  worked  round  to  the  point  which 
he  had  very  near  at  heart,  viz.,  the  liberation  from  prison  of  his 
admired  friend  and  chief,  Captain  .Shandon.  He  knew  to  a 
shilling  the  amount  of  the  detainers  which  were  against  the 
Captain  at  the  porter's  lodge  of  the  Fleet ;  and,  indeed,  pro- 
fessed to  know  all  his  debts,  though  this  was  impossible,  for  no 
man  in  England,  certainly  not  the  Captain  himself,  was  ac- 
quainted with  them.  He  pointed  out  what  Shandon's  engage- 
ments already  were ;  and  how  much  better  he  would  work  if 
removed  from  confinement  (though  this  Mr.  Bungay  denied, 
for,  ''  when  the  Captain's  locked  up,"  he  said,  "  we  are  sure  to 
find  him  at  home  ;  whereas,  when  he's  free,  3^ou  can  never  catch 
hold  of  him")  ;  finally,  he  so  worked  on  Mr.  Bungay's  feelings, 
by  describing  Mrs.  Shandon  pining  awa^^  in  the  prison,  and  the 
child  sickening  there,  that  the  publisher  was  induced  to  promise 
that,  if  Mrs.  Shandon  would  come  to  him  in  the  morning,  he 
would  see  what  could  be  done.  And  the  colloqu}-  ending  at  this 
time  with  the  second  round  of  brandy-and- water,  although  Fin- 
ucane,  who  had  four  guineas  in  his  pocket,  would  have  dis- 
charged the  tavern  reckoning  with  delight,  Bungay  said,  "  No, 
sir,  —  this  is  my  affair,  sir,  if  you  please.  James,  take  the 
bill,  and  eighteenpence  for  3-ourself,"  and  he  handed  over  the 
necessary  funds  to  the  waiter.  Thus  it  was  that  Finucane,  who 
went  to  bed  at  the  Temple  after  the  dinner  at  Dick's,  found 
himself  actually  with  his  week's  salary  intact  upon  Saturdaj- 
morning. 

He  gave  Mrs.  Shandon  a  wink  so  knowing  and  joyful,  that 
that  kind  creature  knew  some  good  news  was  in  store  for  her, 
and  hastened  to  get  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  when  Fin  asked  if 
he  might  have  the  honor  of  taking  her  a  walk,  and  giving  her 
a  little  fresh  air.  And  little  Mary  jumped  for  J03-  at  the  idea 
of  this  holiday,  for  Finucane  never  neglected  to  give  her  a  toy, 
or  to  take  her  to  a  show,  and  brought  newspaper  orders  in  his 
jwcket  for  all  sorts  of  London  diversions  to  amuse  the  child. 
Indeed,  he  loved  them  with  all  his  heart,  and  would  cheerfully 


PENDENNIS.  339 

have  dashed  out  his  rambling  brains  to  do  them,  or  his  adored 
Captain,  a  service. 

"  May  I  go,  Charle}^?  or  shall  I  sta^-  with  30U,  for  you're 
poorly,  dear,  this  morning?  He's  got  a  headache,  Mr.  Finu- 
cane.  He  suffers  from  headaches,  and  I  persuaded  him  to  stay 
in  bed,"  Mrs.  Shandon  said. 

"Go  along  with  you,  and  Polly.  Jack,  take  care  of  'em. 
Hand  me  over  the  Burton's  Anatomy,  and  leave  me  to  m}' 
abominable  devices,"  Shandon  said,  with  perfect  good  humor. 
He  was  writing,  and  not  uncommonly  toolv  his  Greek  and  Latin 
quotations  (of  which  he  knew  the  use  as  a  pubUc  writer)  from 
that  wonderful  repertory  of  learning. 

So  Fin  gave  his  arm  to  Mrs.  Shandon,  and  Mary  went 
skipping  down  the  passages  of  the  prison,  and  through  the 
gate  into  the  free  air.  From  Fleet  Street  to  Paternoster  Row 
is  not  very  far.  As  the  three  reached  Mr.  Bunga3's  shop, 
Mrs.  Bunga}^  was  also  entering  at  the  private  door,  holding  in 
her  hand  a  paper  parcel  and  a  manuscript  volume  bound  in  red, 
and,  indeed,  containing  an  account  of  her  transactions  with  the 
butcher  in  the  neighboring  market.  Mrs.  Bungaj'  was  in  a 
gorgeous  shot  silk  dress,  which  flamed  with  red  and  purple  ; 
she  wore  a  yellow  shawl,  and  had  red  flowers  inside  her  bonnet, 
and  a  brilliant  light  blue  parasol.  Mrs.  Shandon  was  in  an 
old  black  watered  silk  ;  her  bonnet  had  never  seen  very  brilliant 
da3's  of  prosperity'  any  more  than  its  owner,  but  she  could  not 
help  looking  like  a  lady  whatever  her  attire  was.  The  two 
women  curtsied  to  each  other,  each  according  to  her  fashion. 

"  I  hope  you're  pretty  well,  Mum?"  said  Mrs.  Bungay. 

"  It's  a  ver}'  fine  da}',"  said  Mrs.  Shandon. 

"  Won't  30U  step  in,  Mum?"  said  Mrs.  Bungay,  looking  so 
hard  at  the  child  as  almost  to  frighten  her. 

"I  —  I  came  about  business  with  Mr.  Bungay  —  I  —  I  hope 
he's  pretty  well?"  said  timid  Mrs.  Shandon. 

"  If  j'ou  go  to  see  him  in  the  counting-house,  couldn't  3'ou 
—  couldn't  you  leave  your  little  gurl  with  me?"  said  Mrs. 
Bunga}',  in  a  deep  voice,  and  with  a  tragic  look,  as  she  held 
out  one  finger  towards  the  child. 

"I  want  to  sta}'  with  mamma,"  cried  little  Mar}^,  burying 
her  face  in  her  mother's  dress. 

"  Go  with  this  lad}',  Mary,  my  dear,"  said  the  mother. 

"I'll  show  3'ou  some  pretty  pictures,"  said  Mrs.  Bungay, 
with  the  voice  of  an  ogress,  "and  some  nice  things  besides; 
look  here  "  —  and  opening  her  brown  paper  parcel,  Mrs.  Bungay 
displayed  some  choice  sweet  biscuits,  such  as  her  Bungay  loved 


340  PENDENNIS. 

after  his  wine.  Little  Mary  followed  after  this  attraction,  the 
whole  party  entering  at  the  private  entrance,  from  which  a  side 
door  led  into  Mr.  Bungay's  commercial  apartments.  Here, 
however,  as  the  child  was  about  to  part  from  her  mother,  her 
courage  again  failed  her,  and  again  she  ran  to  the  maternal 
petticoat;  upon  which  the  kind  and  gentle  Mrs.  Shandon, 
seeing  the  look  of  disappointment  in  Mrs.  Bungay's  face,  good- 
naturedly  said,  "  If  you  will  let  me,  I  will  come  up  too,  and 
sit  for  a  few  minutes,"  and  so  the  three  females  ascended  the 
stairs  together.  A  second  biscuit  charmed  little  Mary  into 
perfect  confidence,  and  in  a  minute  or  two  she  prattled' away 
without  the  least  restraint. 

Faithful  Finucane  meanwhile  found  Mr.  Bungay  in  a  severer 
mood  than  he  had  been  on  the  night  previous,  when  two-thirds 
of  a  bottle  of  port,  and  two  large  glasses  of  brandy-and-water, 
had  warmed  his  soul  into  enthusiasm,  and  made  him  generous 
in  his  promises  towards  Captain  Shandon.  His  impetuous 
wife  had  rebuked  him  on  his  return  home.  She  had  ordered 
that  he  should  give  no  relief  to  the  Captain ;  he  was  a  good- 
for-nothing  fellow,  whom  no  money  would  help  ;  she  disapproved 
of  the  plan  of  the  "Pall  Mall  Gazette,"  and  expected  that 
Bungay  would  only  lose  his  money  in  it  as  they  were  losing 
over  the  way  (she  always  called  her  brother's  establishment 
"  over  the  way,")  by  the  "  Whitehall  Journal."  Let  Shandon 
stop  in  prison  and  do  his  work  ;  it  was  the  best  place  for  him. 
In  vain  Finucane  pleaded  and  promised  and  implored,  for  his 
friend  Bungay  had  had  an  hour's  lecture  in  the  morning  and 
was  inexorable. 

But  what  honest  Jack  failed  to  do  below  stairs  in  the  count- 
ing-house, the  pretty  faces  and  manners  of  the  mother  and 
child  were  effecting  in  the  drawing-room,  where  they  were 
melting  the  fierce  but  really  soft  Mrs.  Bungay.  There  was 
an  artless  sweetness  in  Mrs.  Shandon's  voice,  and  a  winning 
frankness  of  manner,  which  made  most  people  fond  of  her,  and 
pity  her :  and  taking  courage  by  the  rugged  kindness  with  which 
her  hostess  received  her,  the  Captain's  lady  told  her  story,  and 
described  her  husband's  goodness  and  virtues,  and  her  child's 
failing  health  (she  was  obliged  to  part  with  two  of  them,  she 
said,  and  send  them  to  school,  for  she  could  not  have  them  in 
that  horrid  place)  —  that  Mrs.  Bungay,  though  as  grim  as 
Lady  Macbeth,  melted  under  the  influence  of  the  simple  tale, 
and  said  she  would  go  down  and  speak  to  Bungay.  Now  in 
this  household  to  speak  was  to  command,  with  Mrs.  Bunga}' ; 
and  with  Bungay,  to  hear  was  to  obej-. 


PENDENNIS.  341 

It  was  just  when  poor  Finucane  was  in  despair  about  his 
negotiation,  that  the  majestic  Mrs.  Bungay  descended  upon 
her  spouse,  politely  requested  Mr.  Finucane  to  step  up  to  his 
friends  in  her  drawing-room,  while  she  held  a  few  minutes' 
conversation  with  Mr.  B.,  and  when  the  pair  were  alone  the 
publisher's  better  half  informed  him  of  her  intentions  towards 
the  Captain's  lady. 

"  What's  in  the  wind  now,  my  dear?"  Moecenas  asked,  sur- 
prised at  his  wife's  altered  tone.  "You  wouldn't  hear  of  my 
doing  anything  for  the  Captain  this  morning :  I  wonder  what 
has  been  a  changing  of  .you." 

"  The  Capting  is  an  Irishman,"  Mrs.  Bungay  rephed  ;  "  and 
those  Irish  1  have  alwaj's  said  I  couldn't  abide.  But  his  wife 
is  a  lad}',  as  any  one  can  see  ;  and  a  good  woman,  and  a  clergy- 
man's daughter,  and  a  West  of  England  woman,  B.,  which  I 
am  m3'self,  by  my  mother's  side  —  and,  0  Marmaduke,  didn't 
you  remark  her  little  gurl  ?  " 

••  Yes,  Mrs.  B.,  I  saw  the  little  girl." 

"  And  didn't  3'ou  see  how  like  she  was  to  our  angel,  Bessy, 
Mr.  B.?"  —  and  Mrs.  Bungay's  thoughts  flew  back  to  a  period 
eighteen  years  back,  when  Bacon  and  Bungay  had  just  set  up 
in  business  as  small  booksellers  in  a  country  town,  and  when 
she  had  had  a  child,  named  Bessy,  something  like  the  little 
Mar\'  who  had  just  moved  her  compassion. 

'•Well,  well,  my  dear,"  Mr.  Bungay  said,  seeing  the  little 
eyes  of  his  wife  begin  to  twinkle  and  grow  red  ;  "  the  Captain 
ain't  in  for  much.  There's  only  a  hundred  and  thirty  pound 
against  him.  Half  the  money  will  take  him  out  of  the  Fleet, 
Finucane  says,  and  we'll  pay  him  half  salaries  till  he  has  made 
the  account  square.  When  the  little  'nn  said,  '  Why  don't  you 
take  Par  out  of  pizn?'  I  did  feel  it,  Elizabeth,  upon  my  honor 
I  did,  now."  And  the  upshot  of  this  conversation  was,  that 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bunga}-  both  ascended  to  the  drawing-room,  and 
Mr.  Bungay  made  a  heavy  and  clumsy  speech,  in  which  he 
announced  to  Mrs.  Shandon,  that,  hearing  sixt3'-five  pounds 
would  set  her  husband  free,  he  was  ready  to  advance  that  sum 
of  money,  deducting  it  from  the  Captain's  salary,  and  that  he 
would  give  it  to  her  on  condition  that  she  would  personally 
settle  with  the  creditors  regarding  her  husband's  liberation. 

I  think  this  was  the  happiest  day  that  Mrs.  Shandon  and 
Mr.  Finucane  had  had  for  a  long  time.  "  Bedad,  Bungay, 
you're  a  trump  !  "  roared  out  Fin,  in  an  overpowering  brogue 
and  emotion.  ''  Give  us  your  fist,  old  boy  ;  and  won't  we  send 
the  '  Pall  MaU  Gazette '  up  tx)  ten  thousand  a  week,  that's  all !  " 


342  PENDENK[S. 

and  he  jumped  around  the  room,  and  tossed  up  little  Mary, 
with  a  hundred  frantic  antics. 

"  If  I  could  drive  you  an3"where  in  ni}'  carriage,  Mrs.  Shan- 
don —  I'm  sure  it's  quite  at  jour  service,"  Mrs.  Bungay  said, 
looking  out  at  a  one-horsed  vehicle  whicli  had  just  driven  up,  and 
in  which  this  lady  took  the  air  considerabl}' —  and  the  two  ladies, 
with  little  Mary  between  them  (whose  tiny  hand  Maecenas's  wife 
kept  fixed  in  her  great  grasp),  with  the  delighted  Mr.  Finucane 
on  the  back  seat,  drove  away  from  Paternoster  Row,  as  the 
owner  of  the  vehicle  threw  triumphant  glances  at  the  opposite 
windows  at  Bacon's. 

"  It  won't  do  the  Captain  any  good,"  thought  Bungay,  going 
back  to  his  desk  and  accounts,  "  but  Mrs.  B.  becomes  reglar 
upset  when  she  thinks  about  her  misfortune.  The  child  would 
have  been  of  age  yesterday,  if  she'd  lived.  Bessy  told  me 
so ; "  and  he  wondered  how  women  did  remember  things. 

We  are  happj'  to  say  that  Mrs.  Shandon  sped  with  very 
good  success  upon  her  errand.  She  who  had  had  to  mollify 
creditors  when  she  had  no  money  at  all,  and  only  tears  and  en- 
treaties wherewith  to  soothe  them,  found  no  difficulty  in  making 
them  relent  by  means  of  a  bribe  of  ten  shillings  in  the  pound  ; 
and  the  next  Sundaj'^  was  the  last,  for  some  time  at  least,  which 
the  Captain  spent  in  prison. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

A    DINNER    IN    THE     ROW. 

Upon  the  appointed  day  our  two  friends  made  their  appear- 
ance at  Mr.  Bungay's  door  in  Paternoster  Row  ;  not  the  pub- 
lic entrance  through  which  booksellers'  boys  issued  with  theii 
sacks  full  of  Bungay's  volumes,  and  around  which  timid  aspi- 
rants lingered  with  their  virgin  manuscripts  ready  for  sale  to 
Sultan  Bungay,  but  at  the  private  door  of  the  house,  whence  the 
splendid  Mrs.  Bungay  would  come  forth  to  step  into  her  chaise 
and  take  her  drive,  settling  herself  on  the  cushions,  and  cast- 
mg  looks  of  defiance  at  Mrs.  Bacon's  opposite  windows  —  at 
Mrs.  Bacon,  who  was  as  yet  a  chaiseless  woman. 

On  such  occasions,  when  verj'  much  wroth  at  her  sister-in- 
law's  splendor,  Mrs.  Bacon  would  fling  up  the  sash  of  her  draw- 
»)i»g;-room  window,  and  look  out  with  her  foui'  children  at  the 


PENDENNIS.  343 

chaise,  as  much  as  to  say,  '*  Look  at  these  four  darlings,  Flora 
Bunga}- !  This  is  why  I  can't  drive  in  my  carriage  ;  a'ou  ■vrould 
give  a  coach  and  four  to  have  the  same  reason."  And  it  was 
with  these  arrows  out  of  her  quiver  that  Emma  Bacon  shot 
Flora  Bungay  as  she  sat  in  her  chariot  envious  and  childless. 

As  Pen  and  Wai'rington  came  to  Bungay's  door,  a  carriage 
and  a  cab  drove  up  to  Bacon's.  Old  Dr.  Slocum  descended 
heavily  from  the  first ;  the  Doctor's  equipage  was  as  ponderous 
as  his  style,  but  both  had  a  fine  sonorous  eli'ect  upon  the  pub- 
hshers  in  the  Row.  A  couple  of  dazzling  white  waistcoats 
stepped  out  of  the  cab. 

Warrington  laughed.  "  You  see  Bacon  has  his  dinner-party 
too.  That  is  Dr.  Slocum,  author  of  '  Memoirs  of  the  Poison- 
ers.' You  would  hardly  have  recognized  our  friend  Hoolan  in 
that  gallant  white  waistcoat.  Doolan  is  one  of  Bunga3-'s  men, 
and,  faith,  here  he  comes."  Indeed  Messrs.  Hoolan  and  Doolan 
had  come  from  the  Strand  in  the  same  cab,  tossing  up  by  the 
wa}-  which  should  pay  the  shilling  ;  and  Mr.  D.  stepped  from 
the  other  side  of  the  way,  arrayed  in  black,  with  a  large  pair  of 
white  gloves  which  were  spread  out  on  his  hands,  and  which 
the  owner  could  not  help  regarding  with  pleasure. 

The  house  porter  in  an  evening  coat,  and  gentlemen  with 
gloves  as  large  as  Doolan's,  but  of  the  famous  Berlin  web, 
were  on  the  passage  of  Mr.  Bungay's  house  to  receive  the 
guests'  hats  and  coats,  and  bawl  theiv  names  up  the  stair. 
Some  of  the  latter  had  arrived  when  the  three  new  ^^sitors 
made  their  appearance  ;  but  there  was  only  Mrs.  Bungay,  in 
red  satin  and  a  turban,  to  represent  her  own  charming  sex. 
She  made  curtsies  to  each  new-comer  as  he  entered  the  drawing- 
room,  but  her  mind  was  evidenth"  preoccupied  bj-  extraneous 
thoughts.  The  fact  is,  Mrs.  Bacon's  dinner-party  was  disturb- 
ing her,  and  as  soon  as  she  had  received  each  individual  of  her 
own  company.  Flora  Bungay  flew  back  to  the  embrasure  of  the 
window,  whence  she  could  rake  the  cari'iages  of  Emma  Bacon's 
friends  as  the}'  came  rattling  up  the  Row.  The  sight  of  Dr. 
Slocum's  large  carriage,  with  the  gaunt  job-horses,  crushed 
Flora :  none  but  hack  cabs  had  driven  up  to  her  own  door  on 
that  day. 

They  were  all  literary  gentlemen,  though  unknown  as  yet  to 
Pen.  There  was  Mr.  Bole,  tlie  real  editor  of  the  magazine,  of 
which  Mr.  Wagg  was  the  nominal  chief;  Mr.  Trotter,  who, 
from  having  broke  out  on  the  world  as  a  poet  of  a  tragic  and 
saicidal  cast,  had  now  subsided  into  one  of  Mr.  Bungay's  back 
shops  as  reader  for  that  gentleman :  and  C/aptain   Sumph,  an 


344  PENDENNIS. 

ex-beau  still  about  town,  and  related  in  some  indistinct  manner 
to  Literature  and  the  Peerage.  He  was  said  to  have  written  a 
book  once,  to  have  been  a  friend  of  Lord  Byron,  to  be  related 
to  Lord  Sumphington  ;  in  fact,  anecdotes  of  Bjron  formed  his 
staple,  and  he  seldom  spoke  but  with  the  name  of  that  poet  or 
some  of  his  contemporaries  in  his  mouth,  as  thus  :  "I  remem- 
ber poor  SheUey  at  school  being  sent  up  for  good  for  a  copy  of 
verses,  ever}^  Hue  of  which  I  wrote,  b\'  Jove  ;  "  or,  "I  recoUect, 
when  I  was  at  Missolonghi  with  Byron,  offering  to  bet  Gamba," 
and  so  forth.  This  gentleman.  Pen  remarked,  was  listened  to 
with  great  attention  by  Mrs.  Bunga}' ;  his  anecdotes  of  the 
aristocracy,  of  which  he  was  a  middle-aged  member,  delighted 
the  publisher's  lady  ;  and  he  was  almost  a  greater  man  than  the 
great  Mr.  "Wagg  himself  in  her  eyes.  Had  he  but  come  in  his 
own  carnage,  Mrs.  Bungay  would  have  made  her  Bungay  pur- 
chase any  given  volume  from  his  pen. 

Mr.  Bungay  went  about  to  his  guests  as  they  arrived,  and 
did  the  honors  of  his  house  with  much  cordialit}*.  "How  are 
3'ou,  sir?  Fine  day,  sir.  Glad  to  see  you  year,  sir.  Flora, 
my  love,  let  me  ave  the  honor  of  introducing  Mr.  Warrington 
to  you.  Mr.  Warrington,  Mrs.  Bungay  ;  Mr.  Pendennis,  Mrs. 
Bungay.  Hope  j'Ou've  brought  good  appetites  with  you,  gen- 
tlemen. You,  Doolan,  I  know  ave,  for  j-ou've  alwa3's  ad  a 
deuce  of  a  twist." 

"  Lor,  Bungay  !  "  said  Mrs.  Bungay. 

"Faith,  a  man  must  be  hard  to  please,  Bunga}-,  who  can't 
eat  a  good  dinner  in  this  house,"  Doolan  said,  and  he  winked 
and  stroked  his  lean  chops  with  his  large  gloves  ;  and  made  ap- 
peals of  friendship  to  Mrs.  Bunga}-,  which  that  honest  woman 
refused  with  scorn  from  the  timid  man.  "She  couldn't  abide 
that  Doolan,"  she  said  in  confidence  to  her  friends.  Indeed,  all 
his  flatteries  failed  to  win  her. 

As  they  talked,  Mrs.  Bungay  surveying  mankind  from  her 
window,  a  magnificent  vision  of  an  enormous  gray  cab-horse 
appeared,  and  neared  rapidly.  A  pair  of  white  reins,  held  by 
small  white  gloves,  were  visible  behind  it ;  a  face  pale,  but  richly 
decorated  with  a  chin-tuft,  the  head  of  an  exiguous  groom  bob- 
bing over  the  cab-head  —  these  bright  things  were  revealed  to 
the  delighted  Mrs.  Bungay.  "The  Honorable  Percy  Popjoy 's 
quite  punctual,  I  declare,"  she  said,  and  sailed  to  the  door  to 
be  in  waiting  at  the  nobleman's  arrival. 

"It's  Percy  Popjoy,"  said  Pen,  looking  out  of  window,  and 
seeing  an  individual,  in  extremely  lacguered  boots,  descend 
from  the  swinging  cab  :  and,  in  fact,  it  was  that  3'ouug  noble- 


PENDENNIS.  345 

man  —  Lord  Falconet's  eldest  son,  as  we  all  veiy  well  know, 
who  was  come  to  dine  with  the  publisher  —  his  publisher  of  the 
Row. 

''  He  was  mj'  fag  at  Eton,"  "Warrington  said.  ••  I  ought  to 
have  licked  him  a  little  more."  He  and  Pen  had  had  some 
bouts  at  the  Oxbridge  Union  debates,  in  which  Pen  had  had 
very  much  the  better  of  Percy :  who  present!}-  appeared,  with 
his  hat  under  his  arm,  and  a  look  of  indescribable  good  humor 
and  fatuit}-  in  his  round  dimpled  face,  upon  which  Nature  had 
burst  out  with  a  chin-tuft,  but,  exhausted  with  the  etfort,  had 
left  the  rest  of  the  countenance  bare  of  hair. 

The  temporar}'  groom  of  the  chambers  bawled  out,  "The 
Honorable  Percy  Popjoy,"  much  to  that  gentleman's  discom- 
posure at  hearing  his  titles  announced. 

"  What  did  the  man  want  to  take  away  m}-  hat  for,  Bun- 
gay?" he  asked  of  the  publisher.  "Can't  do  without  my  hat 
—  want  it  to  make  my  bow  to  Mrs.  Bungay.  Plow  well  you 
look,  Mrs.  Bungay,  to-day.  Haven't  seen  your  carriage  in  the 
Park:  wh}'  haven't  you  been  there?  I  missed  3'ou  ;  indeed,  I 
did." 

"  I'm  afraid  you're  a  sad  quiz,"  said  Mrs.  Bunga}'. 

"Quiz!  Never  made  a  joke  in  m}*  —  hullo!  who's  here? 
How  d'ye  do,  Pendennis  ?  How  d'3'e  do,  Warrington  ?  These 
are  old  friends  of  mine,  Mrs.  Bunga}-.  1  sa}',  how  the  doose 
d\d  you  come  here?"  he  asked  of  the  two  young  men,  turning 
his  lacquered  heels  upon  Mrs.  Bangay,  who  respected  her  hus- 
band's two  young  guests,  now  that  she  found  the}-  were  intimate 
with  a  lord's  son. 

"  What!  do  t/iey  know  him?"  she  asked  rapidly  of  Mr.  B. 

"  High  fellers,  I  tell  you — the  young  one  related  to  all  the 
nobilit}-,"  said  the  pulilisher ;  and  both  ran  forward,  smiling 
and  bowing,  to  greet  almost  as  great  personages  as  the  young 
lord  —  no  less  characters,  indeed,  than  the  great  Mr.  Wenham 
and  the  great  Mr.  Wagg,  who  were  now  announced. 

Mr.  Wenham  entered,  wearing  the  usual  demure  look  and 
stealth}'  smile  with  which  he  commonly  surveyed  the  tips  of  his 
neat  little  shining  boots,  and  which  he  but  seldom  brought  to 
bear  upon  the  person  who  addressed  him.  Wagg's  white  waist- 
coat, spread  out,  on  the  contrary,  with  profuse  brilliancy  ;  his 
burl}',  red  face  shone  resplendent  over  it,  lighted  up  with  the 
thoughts  of  good  jokes  and  a  good  dinner.  He  liked  to  make 
his  e7itree  into  a  drawing-room  with  a  laugh,  and,  when  he  went 
awtiy  at  night,  to  leave  a  joke  ex[)l(Kliiig  Ix'hiud  him.  No  per- 
aonal  calamities  or  distresses  (of  which  that  humorist  had  hii 

12 


346  PENDENNIS. 

share  in  common  with  the  unjocular  part  of  mankind)  could  al- 
together keep  his  humor  down.  Whatever  his  griefs  might  be, 
the  thought  of  a  dinner  rallied  his  great  soul ;  and  when  he  saw 
a  lord,  he  saluted  him  with  a  pun. 

Wenham  went  up,  then,  with  a  smug  smile  and  whisper,  to 
Mrs.  Bunga}',  and  looked  at  her  from  under  his  e3X's,  and  showed 
her  the  tips  of  his  shoes.  Waggsaid  she  looked  charming,  and 
pushed  on  straight  at  the  young  nobleman,  whom  he  called  Pop  ; 
and  to  whom  he  instantl}-  related  a  funn^'  stor}',  seasoned  with 
what  the  French  call  gros  sel.  He  was  delighted  to  see  Pen, 
too,  and  shook  hands  with  him,  and  slapped  him  on  the  back 
cordially  ;  for  he  was  full  of  spirits  and  good  humor.  And  he 
talked  in  a  loud  voice  about  their  last  place  and  occasion  of 
meeting  at  Baymouth  ;  and  asked  how  their  friends  of  Clavering 
Park  were,  and  whether  Sir  Francis  was  not  coming  to  London 
for  the  season  ;  and  whether  Pen  had  been  to  see  Lady  Rock- 
minster,  who  had  arrived  — -  fine  old  lady.  Lady  Rockminster  ! 
These  remarks  Wagg  made  not  for  Pen's  ear  so  much  as  for  the 
edification  of  the  company,  whom  he  was  glad  to  inform  that  he 
paid  ^asits  to  gentlemen's  country-seats,  and  was  on  intimate 
terms  wdth  the  nobility. 

Wenham  also  shook  hands  with  our  .young  friend  —  all  of 
which  scenes  Mrs.  Bungay  remarked  with  respectful  pleasure, 
and  communicated  her  ideas  to  Bunga}',  afterwards,  regarding 
the  importance  of  Mr.  Pendennis  —  ideas  by  which  Pen  profited 
much  more  than  he  was  aware. 

Pen,  who  had  read,  and  rather  admired  some  of  her  works 
(and  expected  to  find  in  Miss  Bunion  a  person  somewhat  resem- 
bling her  own  description  of  herself  in  the  ' '  Passion-Flowers," 
in  which  she  stated  that  her  3'outh  resembled  — 

"  A  violet,  shrinking  meanly 
When  blows  the  March  wind  keenly ; 
A  timid  fawn,  on  wild-wood  lawn, 
Where  oak-boughs  rustle  greenly,  —  " 

and  that  her  maturer  beautj'  was  something  verj'  different,  cer- 
tainly, to  the  artless  loveliness  of  her  prime,  but  still  exceedingly 
captivating  and  striking),  beheld,  rather  to  his  surprise  and 
amusement,  a  large  and  bony  w^oman  in  a  crumpled  satin  dress, 
who  came  creaking  into  the  room  with  a  step  as  heav}'  as  a 
grenadier's.  Wagg  instantly  noted  the  straw  which  she  brought 
in  at  the  rumpled  skirt  of  her  dress,  and  would  have  stooped  to 
pick  it  up,  but  Miss  Biuiion  disarmed  all  criticism  b}'  observing 
this  ornament  herself,  and,  patting  down  her  own  large  foot  upoa 


PEXDENXIS.  347 

it,  so  as  to  separate  it  from  her  robe,  she  stopped  and  picked 
up  the  straw,  saying  to  Mrs.  Bungay,  that  she  was  very  sorry 
to  be  a  little  late,  but  that  the  omnibus  was  ver}-  slow  and  what 
a  comfort  it  was  to  get  a  ride  all  the  way  from  Brom[)ton  for 
sixpence.  Nobody  laughed  at  the  poetess's  speech,  it  was 
uttered  so  simply.  Indeed,  the  worthy  woman  had  not  the 
least  notion  of  being  ashamed  of  an  action  incidental  upon  her 
poverty. 

''Is  that  'Passion-Flowers?'"  Pen  said  to  Wenham,  by 
whom  he  was  standing.  "Why,  her  picture  in  the  volume 
represents  her  as  a  very  well-looking  young  woman." 

"  You  know  passion-flowers,  like  all  others,  will  run  to 
seed,"  Wenham  said;  "Miss  Bunion's  portrait  was  probably 
painted  some  3ears  ago." 

"  Well,  I  like  her  for  not  being  ashamed  of  her  poverty." 

"  So  do  I,''  said  Mr.  Wenham,  who  would  have  starved 
rather  than  have  come  to  dinner  in  an  omnibus  ;  "  but  I  don't 
think  that  she  need  flourish  the  straw  about,  do  3'ou,  Mr.  Pen- 
dennis?  My  dear  Miss  Bunion,  how  do  \-ou  do?  I  was  in  a 
great  lady's  drawing-room  this  morning,  and  everybod3'  was 
charmed  with  your  new  volume.  Those  hues  on  the  christening 
of  Lady  Fanny  Fantail  brought  tears  into  the  Duchess's  e^'es. 
I  said  that  I  thought  I  should  have  the  pleasure  of  meeting  3-ou 
to-da^',  and  she  begged  me  to  thank  3'ou,  and  say  how  greatly 
she  was  pleased." 

This  history,  told  in  a  bland,  smiling  manner,  of  a  Duchess 
whom  Wenham  had  met  that  very  morning,  too,  quite  put  poor 
Wagg's  dowager  and  baronet  out  of  court,  and  placed  Wen- 
ham beyond  Wagg  as  a  man  of  fashion.  Wenham  kept  this 
inestimable  advantage,  and  having  the  conversation  to  himself, 
ran  on  with  a  number  of  anecdotes  regarding  the  aristocracy. 
He  tried  to  bring  ]\Ir.  Popjoy  into  the  conversation  by  making 
appeals  to  him,  and  saying,  "I  was  telling  your  father  this 
morning,"  or,  *'  I  think  you  were  present  at  W.  house  the 
other  night  when  the  Duke  said  so  and  so,"  but  Mr.  Popjoy 
would  not  gratify  him  by  joining  in  the  talk,  preferring  to  fall 
back  into  the  window  recess  with  Mrs.  Bungay,  and  watch 
the  cabs  that  drove  up  to  the  opposite  door.  At  least,  if 
he  would  not  talk,  the  hostess  hoped  that  those  odious  Ba- 
cons would  see  how  she  had  secured  the  noble  Percy  Popjoy 
for  her  party. 

And  now  the  bell  of  Saint  Paul's  tolled  half  an  hour  later 
than  that  for  wliich  Mr.  Bungay  had  invited  his  party,  and  it 
was  complete  with  the  exception  of  two  guests,  who  at  last; 


348  PENDENNIS. 

made  their  appearance,  and  in  whom  Pen  was  pleased  to  recog 
nize  Captain  and  Mrs.  Shandon. 

When  these  two  had  made  their  greetings  to  the  master  and 
mistress  of  the  liouse,  and  exchanged  nods  of  more  or  less 
recognition  with  most  of  the  people  present,  Pen  and  Warring- 
ton went  up  and  shoolc  hands  very  warmly'  with  Mrs.  Shandon, 
who,  perhaps,  was  affected  to  meet  them,  and  think  where  it 
was  she  had  seen  them  but  a  few  days  before.  Shandon  was 
brushed  up,  and  looked  pretty  smart,  in  a  red  velvet  waistcoat, 
and  a  frill,  into  which  his  wife  had  stuck  her  best  brooch.  In 
spite  of  Mrs.  Bungay's  kindness,  perhaps  in  consequence  of  it, 
Mrs.  Shandon  felt  great  terror  and  timidity  in  approaching  her  : 
indeed,  she  was  more  awful  than  ever  in  lier  red  satin  and  bird 
of  paradise,  and  it  was  not  until  she  had  asked  in  her  great 
voice  about  the  dear  little  gui'l,  that  the  latter  was  somewhat 
encouraged,  and  ventured  to  speak. 

"  Nice-looking  woman,"  Popjoy  whispered  to  Warrington. 
''  Do  introduce  me  to  Captain  Shandon,  Warrington.  I'm  told 
he's  a  tremendous  clever  fellow  ;  and,  dammy,  I  adore  intellect, 
by  Jove  I  do  I  "  This  was  the  truth  :  Heaven  had  not  endowed 
young  Mr.  Popjo}'  with  much  intellect  of  his  own,  but  had 
given  him  a  generous  faculty  for  admiring,  if  not  for  appre- 
ciating, the  intellect  of  others.  "And  introduce  me  to  Miss 
Bunion.  I'm  told  she's  very  clever  too.  She's  rum  to  look  at, 
certainl}',  but  that  don't  matter.  Daram}',  I  consider  mj'self  a 
literarj-  man,  and  I  wish  to  know  all  the  clever  fellows."  So 
Mr.  Popjoy  and  Mr.  Shandon  had  the  pleasure  of  becoming 
acquainted  with  one  another ;  and  now  the  doors  of  the  adjoin- 
ing dining-room  being  flung  open,  the  party  entered  and  took 
their  seats  at  table.  Pen  found  himself  next  to  Miss  Bunion 
on  one  side,  and  to  Mr.  Wagg  —  the  truth  is,  Wagg  fled 
alarmed  from  the  vacant  place  by  the  poetess,  and  Pen  was 
compelled  to  take  it. 

The  gifted  being  did  not  talk  much  during  dinner,  but  Pen 
remarked  that  she  ate,  with  a  vast  appetite,  and  never  refused 
any  of  the  supplies  of  wine  which  were  offered  to  her  by  the 
butler.  Indeed,  Miss  Bunion  having  considered  Mr.  Pen- 
dennis  for  a  minute,  who  gave  himself  rather  grand  airs,  and 
who  was  attired  in  an  extremely  fashionable  style,  with  his 
xery  best  chains,  shirt-studs,  and  cambric  fronts,  he  was  set 
down  and  not  without  reason,  as  a  prig  b}-  the  poetess ;  who 
thought  it  was  much  better  to  attend  to  her  dinner  than  to 
take  an}^  notice  of  him.  She  told  him  as  much  in  after  days 
with  her  usual  candor.     "  I  took  you  for  one  of  the  little  May 


PENDEXNIS.  349 

fair  dandies,"  she  said  to  Pen.  "You  looked  as  solemn  as  a 
little  undertaker  ;  and  as  I  disliked,  beyond  measure,  the  odious 
creature  who  was  on  the  other  side  of"  me,  I  thought  it  was  best 
to  eat  my  dinner  and  hold  my  tongue." 

'*  And  you  did  both  very  well,  my  dear  Miss  Bunion,"  Pen 
said  with  a  laugh. 

''  Well,  so  1  do,  but  I  intend  to  talk  to  you  the  next  time  a 
great  deal :  for  you  are  neither  so  solemn,  nor  so  stupid,  nor 
so  pert  as  you  look." 

•'Ah,  Miss  Bunion,  how  I  pine  for  that  'next  time'  to 
come,"  Pen  said,  with  an  air  of  comical  gallantry: — But  we 
must  return  to  the  day,  and  the  dinner  at  Paternoster  Row. 

The  repast  was  of  the  richest  description  —  "  What  I  call  of 
the  tlorid  Gothic  st3le,"  Wagg  whispered  to  Pen,  who  sat  be- 
side the  humorist,  in  his  side-wing  voice.  The  men  in  creaking 
shoes  and  Berlin  gloves  were  numerous  and  solemn,  carrying 
on  rapid  conversations  behind  the  guests,  as  they  moved  to 
and  fro  with  the  dishes.  Doolan  called  out,  "Waither,"to  one 
of  them,  and  blushed  when  he  thought  of  his  blunder.  Mrs. 
Bungay's  own  footboy  was  lost  amidst  those  large  and  black- 
coated  attendants. 

'  •  Look  at  that  very  bow- windowed  man,"  Wagg  said.  ' '  He's 
an  undertaker  in  Amen  Corner,  and  attends  funerals  and  din- 
ners. Cold  meat  and  hot,  don't  you  perceive?  He's  the  sham 
butler  here,  and  I  observe,  my  dear  Mr.  Pendennis,  as  you  will 
through  life,  that  wherever  there  is  a  sham  butler  at  a  London 
dinner  there  is  sham  wine  —  this  sheny  is  filthy.  Bungay,  my 
boy,  where  did  you  get  this  delicious  brown  sherry  ?  " 

"  I'm  glad  you  like  it,  Mr.  Wagg  ;  glass  with  3'ou,"  said  the 
publisher.  "It's  some  I  got  from  Alderman  Benning's  store, 
and  gave  a  good  figure  for  it,  I  can  tell  3'ou.  Mr.  Pendennis, 
will  you  join  us?     Your  'ealth,  gentlemen." 

'*  The  old  rogue,  where  does  he  expect  to  go  to?  It  came 
from  the  public-house,"  Wagg  said.  "  It  requires  two  men  to 
carry  off  that  sherry,  'tis  so  uncommonly  strong.  I  wish  I  had 
a  bottle  of  old  Steyne's  wine  here,  Pendennis :  your  uncle  and 
I  have  had  many  a  one.  He  sends  it  about  to  people  where 
he  is  in  the  habit  of  dining.  I  remember  at  poor  Rawdon 
Crawley's,  Sir  Pitt  Crawlers  brother  —  he  was  Governor  of 
Coventry  Island  —  Steyne's  chef  always  came  in  the  morning, 
and  the  butler  arrived  with  the  champagne  from  Gaunt  House, 
in  the  ice-pails  ready." 

"  How  good  this  is  !  "  said  Popjoy,  good-naturedl}'.  "  You 
must  have  a  cordon  bleu  in  your  kitchen." 


350  PENDENNIS. 

"O  yes,"  Mrs.  Bungay  said,  thinking  lie  spoke  of  a  jack- 
chain  ver}'  likely. 

"  I  mean  a  French  chef,"  said  the  polite  guest. 

"  O  3"es,  3'our  lordship,"  again  said  the  lad}'. 

"Does  your  artist  sa}'  he's  a  Frenchman,  Mrs.  B?"  called 
out  Wagg. 

"Well,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  answered  the  publisher's 
jlady. 

"Because,  if  he  does,  he's  a  q^dzzm  yer."  cried  Mr.  AVagg ; 
but  nobody  saw  the  pun,  which  disconcerted  somewhat  the 
bashful  punster.  "The  dinner  is  from  Griggs'  in  St.  Paul's 
Churchyard;  so  is  Bacon's,"  he  whispered  Pen.  "Bungay 
writes  to  give  half  a  crown  a  head  more  than  Bacon,  —  so  does 
Bacon.  They  would  poison  each  other's  ices  if  they  could  get 
near  them ;  and  as  for  the  made-dishes  —  they  are  poison. 
This  —  hum  —  ha  —  this  Brimbor ion  a /a  Sev/'gne  is  delicious, 
Mrs.  B."  he  said,  helping  himself  to  a  dish  which  the  under- 
taker handed  to  him. 

"Well,  I'm  glad  you  like  it,"  Mrs.  Bungay  answered, 
blushing,  and  not  knowing  whether  the  name  of  the  dish  was 
actually  that  which  Wagg  gave  to  it,  but  dimly  conscious  that 
that  individual  was  quizzing  her.  Aecordingl}-  she  hated  Mr. 
Wagg  with  female  ardor :  and  would  have  deposed  him  from 
his  command  over  Mr.  Bungay's  periodical,  but  that  his  name 
was  great  in  the  trade,  and  his  reputation  in  the  land  consid- 
erable. 

By  the  displacement  of  persons,  Warrington  had  found  him- 
self on  the  right  hand  of  Mrs.  Shandon,  who  sat  in  plain  black 
silk  and  faded  ornaments  by  the  side  of  the  florid  publisher. 
The  sad  smile  of  the  lady  moved  his  rough  heart  to  pit}-.  No- 
body seemed  to  interest  himself  about  her :  she  sat  looking  at 
her  husband,  who  himself  seemed  rather  abashed  in  the  pres- 
ence of  some  of  the  company.  Wenham  and  Wogg  both  knew 
•him  and  Jiis  circumstances.  He  had  worlced  wilh  the  latter, 
and  was  immeasurably  his  superior  in  wit,  genius,  and  acquire- 
ments ;  but  Wagg's  star  was  brilliant  in  the  world,  and  poor 
Shandon  was  unknown  there.  He  could  not  speak  before  the 
noisy  talk  of  the  coarser  and  more  successful  man  ;  but  drank 
his  wine  in  silence,  and  as  much  of  it  as  the  people  would  give 
him.  He  was  under  surveillance.  Bungay  had  warned  the  un- 
dertaker not  to  fill  the  Captain's  glass  too  often  or  too  full.  It 
was  a  melancholy  precaution  that,  and  the  more  melancholy 
that  it  was  necessary.  Mrs.  Shandon,  too,  cast  alarmed  glances 
p,cross  the  table  to  sec  thnt  her  husband  did  not  exceed, 


PENDENNIS.  351 

Abashed  bj-  the  failure  of  his  first  pnn,  for  he  was  impudent 
and  easily  disconcerted,  Wagg  kept  his  conversation  pretty 
much  to  Pen  during  the  rest  of  dinner,  and  of  coui-se  chiefly 
spoke  about  their  neighbors.  "  This  is  one  of  Bungay's  grand 
field-days,"  he  said.  "We  are  all  Bungavians  here. — Did 
vou  read  Popjoy's  novel?  It  was  an  old  magazine  stor}-  written 
by  poor  Buzzard  3'ear3  ago,  and  forgotten  here  until  Mr.  Trot- 
ter (that  is  Trotter  with  the  large  shirt-collar)  fished  it  out  and 
bethought  him  that  it  was  applicable  to  the  late  elopement ;  so 
Bob  wrote  a  few  chapters  apropos  —  Popjo}-  permitted  the  use 
of  his  name,  and  I  dare  sixy  supplied  a  page  here  and  there  — 
and  '  Desperation,  or  the  Fugitive  Duchess '  made  its  appear- 
ance. The  great  fun  is  to  examine  Popjoy  about  his  own  work, 
of  which  he  doesn't  know  a  word. — I  say.  Popjoy,  what  a 
capital  passage  that  is  in  Volume  Three,  —  where  the  Cardinal 
in  disguise,  after  being  converted  b}-  the  Bishop  of  London, 
proposes  marriage  to  the  Duchess's  daughter." 

"  Glad  you  Uke  it,"  Popjoy  answered  ;  "  it's  a  favorite  bit 
of  my  own." 

'^  There's  no  such  thing  in  the  whole  book,"  whispered  Wagg 
to  Pen.  "Invented  it  myself.  Gad!  it  wouldn't  be  a  bad 
plot  for  a  high-Ciiurch  novel." 

"I  remember  poor  Byron,  Hol>house,  Trelawncy,  and  my- 
self, dining  with  Cardinal  Mezzocaldo,  at  Rome,"  Captain 
Sumph  began,  "  and  we  had  some  Orvieto  Avine  for  dinner, 
which  Bvron  liked  ver}'  much.  And  I  remember  how  the  Car- 
dinal regretted  that  he  was  a  single  man.  AVe  went  to  Civita 
Vecchia  two  da3's  afterwards,  where  Byron's  yacht  was  — and, 
by  Jove,  the  Cardinal  died  within  three  weeks  ;  and  BjTon  was 
ver}'  sorry,  for  he  rather  liked  him." 

"A  devilish  interesting  story,  Sumph,  indeed,"  Wagg  said. 

"  You  should  publish  some  of  those  stories.  Captain  Sumph, 
3'ou  really  should.  Such  a  volume  would  make  our  friend 
Bungay's  fortune,"  Shandou  said. 

''  Why  don't  \o\\  ask  Sumph  to  publish  'em  in  _vour  new 
paper  —  the  what-d'-ye-call-'em  —  ha}',  Shandon,"  bawled  out 
Wagg. 

"  Wh}-  don't  }'ou  ask  him  to  publish  'em  in  3our  old  maga- 
zine, the  Thiugumbob ? "  Shandon  replied. 

"  Is  there  going  to  be  a  new  paper?"  asked  Wenham,  who 
knew  perfectl}'  well ;  but  was  ashamed  of  his  connection  with 
the  press. 

"  Bunga}'  going  to  bring  out  a  paper?"  cried  Popjo}',  who, 
on  the  contrary,  was  proud  of  his  literar3'  reputation  and  ac 


352  PENDENNIS, 

quaintances.  "You  must  employ  me.  Mrs.  Bungay,  use 
your  influence  with  him,  and  make  him  employ  me.  Prose  or 
verse  —  what  shall  it  be?  Novels,  poems,  travels,  or  leading 
articles,  begad.  Anything  or  everything  —  only  let  Bungay 
pay  me,  and  I'm  read}- — I  am  now,  my  dear  Mrs,  Bungay, 
begad  now." 

"It's  to  be  called  the  'Small  Beer  Chronicle,'"  growled 
Wagg,  "  and  little  Popjoy-  is  to  be  engaged  for  the  infantine 
department." 

"  It  is  to  be  called  the  '  Pall  Mall  Gazette,'  sir,  and  we  shall 
be  very  happy  to  have  you  with  us,"  Shandon  said. 

"  'Pall  Mall  Gazette  '  —  why  '  Pall  Mall  Gazette'?  "  asked 
Wagg. 

"  Because  the  editor  was  born  at  Dublin,  the  sub-editor  at 
Cork,  because  the  proprietor  lives  in  Paternoster  Row,  and  the 
paper  is  published  in  Catherine  Street,  Strand.  Won't  that 
reason  suffice  3'ou,  Wagg?"  Shandon  said;  he  was  getting 
rather  angry.  "Everything  must  have  a  name.  M3'  dog 
Ponto  has  got  a  name.  You've  got  a  name,  and  a  name  which 
you  deserve,  more  or  less,  bedad.  Why  d'ye  grudge  the  name 
to  oar  paper  ?  " 

"  By  any  other  name  it  would  smell  as  sweet,"  said  Wagg. 

"  I'll  have  ye  remember  its  name's  not  what-d'-ye-call-'em, 
Mr.  Wagg,"  said  Shandon.  "You  know  its  name  well 
enough,  and  —  and  you  know  mine." 

"And  I  know  your  address,  too,"  said  Wagg,  but  this  was 
spoken  in  an  undertone,  and  the  good-natured  Irishman  was 
appeased  almost  in  an  instant  after  his  ebullition  of  spleen,  and 
asked  Wagg  to  drink  wine  with  him  in  a  friendl}'  voice. 

When  the  ladies  retired  from  the  table,  the  talli  grew  louder 
still ;  and  presently  Wenham,  in  a  courtly  speech,  proposed 
that  everj'body  should  drink  to  the  health  of  the  new  Journal, 
eulogizing  highly  the  talents,  wit,  and  learning,  of  its  editor, 
Captain  Shandon.  It  was  his  maxim  never  to  lose  the  support 
of  a  newspaper  man,  and  in  the  course  of  that  evening,  he  went 
round  and  saluted  everj*  literary  gentleman  present  with  a  priv}^ 
compliment  specially  addressed  to  him ;  informing  this  one 
how  great  an  impression  had  been  made  in  Downing  Street  b}' 
his  last  article,  and  telling  that  one  how  profoundly  his  good 
friend,  the  Duke  of  So  and  So,  had  been  struck  b}'  the  ability 
of  the  late  numbers. 

The  evening  came  to  a  close,  and  in  spite  of  all  the  precau- 
tions to  the  contrary,  poor  Shandon  reeled  in  his  walk,  and 
went  home  to  his  new  lodgings,  with  his  faithful  wife  by  his 


PENDENNIS.  353 

side,  and  the  cabman  on  his  box  jeering  at  him.  Wenham  had 
a  chariot  of  his  own,  which  he  put  at  Popjoy's  service  ;  and  the 
timid  Miss  Bunion  seeing  Mr.  AVagg,  who  was  her  neighbor, 
about  to  depart,  insisted  upon  a  seat  in  his  carriage,  much  to 
that  gentleman's  discomfiture. 

Pen  and  Warrington  walked  home  together  in  the  moon- 
lighr.  ''  And  now,"  Warrington  said,  "  that  you  have  seen 
the  men  of  letters,  tell  me,  was  I  far  wrong  in  saying  that  there 
are  thousands  of  people  in  this  town,  who  don't  write  books, 
who  are,  to  the  full,  as  clever  and  intellectual  as  people  who 
do?" 

Pen  was  forced  to  confess  that  the  litei^ary  personages  with 
whom  he  had  become  acquainted  had  not  said  much,  in  the 
course  of  the  night's  conversation,  that  was  worthy  to  be  re- 
membered or  quoted.  In  fact,  not  one  word  about  literature 
had  been  said  during  the  whole  course  of  the  night :  —  and  it 
may  be  whispered  to  those  uninitiated  people  who  ai-e  anxious 
to  know  the  habits  and  make  the  acquaintance  of  men  of  letters; 
that  there  are  no  race  of  people  who  talk  about  books,  or  per 
haps,  who  read  books,  so  little  as  literary  men. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

THE    "pall    mall    GAZETTE." 

CoNSiDEKABLE  succcss  at  first  attended  the  new  journal.  It 
was  generally  stated  that  an  influential  political  party  supported 
the  paper ;  and  great  names  were  cited  amongst  the  contrib- 
utors to  its  columns.  Was  there  any  foundation  for  these 
rumors  ?  We  are  not  at  liberty  to  say  whether  they  were  well 
or  ill  founded  ;  but  this  much  we  may  divulge,  that  an  article 
upon  foreign  policy,  which  was  generally  attributed  to  a  noble 
Lord,  whose  connection  with  the  Foreign  Office  is  very  well 
known,  was  in  reality  composed  b}'  Captain  Shandon,  in  the 
parlor  of  the  Bear  and  Staff  jjublic-house  near  Whitehall  Stairs, 
whither  the  printer's  bo}-  hud  tracked  him,  and  where  a  literary 
ally  of  his,  Mr.  Bludver,  had  a  temporar}-  residence  ;  and  that 
a  series  of  papers  on  finance  questions,  which  were  universally 
supposed  to  be  written  l)y  a  great  Statesman  of  the  House  of 
Commons,  were  in  reality  composed  by  Mr,  George  Warring- 
ton of  the  Upper  Temple. 

23 


354  PENDENNIS. 

That  there  may  have  been  some  deaUngs  between  the  "  Pall 
Mall  Gazette"  and  this  influential  part}-,  is  ver}-  possible. 
Percy  Popjoy  (whose  father,  Lord  Falconet,  was  a  member  of 
the  party)  might  be  seen  not  unt'requently  ascending  the  stairs 
to  Warrington's  chambers  ;  and  some  inlbrmation  appeared  in 
the  paper  which  gave  it  a  character,  and  could  onlj-  be  got 
from  very  peculiar  sources.  Several  poems,  feeble  in  thought, 
but  loud  and  vigorous  in  expression,  appeared  in  the  "Pall 
JMall  Gazette,"  with  the  signature  of  "  P.  P."  ;  and  it  must  be 
owned  that  his  novel  was  praised  in  the  new  journal  in  a  very 
outrageous  manner. 

In  the  political  department  of  the  paper  Mr.  Pen  did  not 
take  anj'  share  ;  but  he  was  a  most  active  literary  contributor. 
The  "  Pall  Mall  Gazette"  had  its  offices,  as  we  have  heard,  in 
Catherine  Street,  in  the  Strand,  and  hither  Pen  often  came 
with  his  manuscripts  in  his  pocket,  and  with  a  great  deal  of 
bustle  and  pleasure  ;  such  as  a  man  feels  at  the  outset  of  his 
literary  career,  when  to  see  himself  in  print  is  still  a  novel  sen- 
sation, and  he  3'et  pleases  himself  to  think  that  his  writings  are 
creating  some  noise  in  the  world. 

Here  it  was  that  Mr.  Jack  Finucane,  the  sub-editor,  com- 
piled with  paste  and  scissors  the  journal  of  which  he  was  super- 
visor. With  an  eagle  eye  he  scanned  all  the  paragraphs  of  alV 
the  newspapers  which  had  anything  to  do  with  the  world  of 
fashion  over  which  he  presided.  He  didn't  let  a  death  or  a 
dinner-party  of  the  aristocracy  pass  without  having  the  event 
recorded  in  the  columns  of  his  journal ;  and  from  the  most 
recondite  provincial  prints,  and  distant  Scotch  and  Irish  news- 
papers, he  fished  out  astonishing  paragraphs  and  intelligence 
regarding  the  upper  classes  of  society.  It  was  a  grand,  na}',  a 
touching  sight,  for  a  philosopher,  to  see  Jack  Finucane,  Esquire, 
with  a  plate  of  meat  from  the  cookshop,  and  a  glass  of  porter 
from  the  public-house,  for  his  meal,  recounting  the  feasts  of 
the  great,  as  if  he  had  been  present  at  them  ;  and  in  tattered 
trousers  and  ding^^  shirt-sleeves,  cheerfully  describing  and  ar- 
ranging the  most  brilliant  fetes  of  the  world  of  fashion.  The 
incongruity  of  Finucane's  avocation,  and  his  manners  and  ap- 
pearance, amused  his  new  friend  Pen.  Since  he  left  his  own 
native  village,  v^here  his  rank  probabl}'  was  not  ver}'  lofty, 
Jack  had  seldom  seen  any  society  but  such  as  used  the  parlor 
of  the  taverns  which  he  frequented,  whei'cas  iVom  his  writing 
yon  would  have  supposed  that  he  dined  with  ambassadors,  and 
that  his  common  lounge  was  the  bow-window  of  White's.  Er- 
rors of  description,  it  is  true,  occasionally  slipped  from  his  pen  ; 


PENDENNIS.  35o 

but  the  "  Ballinafad  Sentinel,"  of  which  he  was  own  corre- 
SDondent,  suffered  b}'  these,  not  the  "  Pall  Mall  Gazette,"  in 
■nlnch  Jack  was  not  permitted  to  write  much,  his  London  chiefs 
thinking  that  the  scissors  and  the  paste  were  better  wielded  by 
him  than  the  pen. 

Pen  took  a  great  deal  of  pains  with  the  writing  of  his  re-> 
views,  and  having  a  prett}'  fair  share  of  desultory  reading, 
acquired  in  the  earl}-  years  of  his  life,  an  eager  fancy  and  a 
keen  sense  of  fun,  his  articles  pleased  his  chief  and  the  public, 
and  he  was  proud  to  think  that  he  deserved  the  money  which 
he  earned.  We  ma}-  be  sure  that  the  "Pall  Mall  Gazette" 
was  taken  in  regularl}-  at  Fairoaks,  and  read  with  delight  b}- 
the  two  ladies  there.  It  was  received  at  Clavering  Park,  too, 
where  we  know  there  was  a  young  lady  of  great  literary  tastes  ; 
and  old  Doctor  Portman  himself,  to  whom  the  widow  sent  lier 
paper  after  she  had  got  her  son's  articles  by  heart,  signified  liis 
approval  of  Pen's  productions,  sa3'ing  that  the  lad  had  spirit, 
taste,  and  fancy,  and  wrote,  if  not  like  a  scholar,  at  any  rate 
like  a  gentleman. 

And  what  was  the  astonishment  and  delight  of  our  friend 
Major  Pendennis,  on  walking  into  one  of  his  clubs,  the  Regent, 
where  Wenham,  Lord  Falconet,  and  some  other  gentlemen  of 
good  reputation  and  fashion  were  assembled,  to  hear  them  one 
da}-  talking  over  a  number  of  the  ''  Pall  Mall  Gazette,"  and  of 
an  article  which  appeared  in  its  columns,  making  some  bitter 
fun  of  a  book  recent!}'  published  by  the  wife  of  a  celebrated 
member  of  the  opposition  party.  The  book  in  question  was  a 
Book  of  Travels  in  Spain  and  Italy,  by  the  Countess  of  Muff- 
borough,  in  which  it  was  difficult  to  say  which  was  the  most 
wonderful,  the  French  or  the  Enghsh,  in  which  languages  her 
ladyship  wrote  indifferently,  and  upon  the  blunders  of  which 
the  critic  pounced  with  delighted  mischief.  The  critic  was  no 
other  than  Pen  :  he  jumped  and  danced  round  about  his  subject 
with  the  greatest  jocularity  and  high  spirits  :  he  showed  up  the 
noble  lad}''s  faults  with  admirable  mock  gravity  and  decorum. 
There  was  not  a  word  in  the  article  which  was  not  polite  and 
gentleman-like  ;  and  the  unfortunate  subject  of  the  criticism 
was  scarified  and  laughed  at  during  tlie  operation.  Wenham's 
bilious  countenance  was  puckered  up  with  malign  pleasure 
as  he  read  the  critique.  Lady  Muffborough  had  not  asked 
him  to  her  parties  during  the  last  year.  Lord  Falconet  gig- 
gled and  laughed  with  all  his  Iieart ;  Lord  Muffborough  and 
he  had  been  rivals  ever  since  they  began  life  ;  and  these  com- 
plimented Major  Pendennis,  who  until  now  had  scarcely  paid 


356  PENDENNIS. 

any  attention  to  some  hints  which  his  Fairoaks  correspondence 
threw  out  of  "  clear  Arthur's  constant  and  severe  hterary  occu- 
pations, which  I  fear  ma}'  undermine  the  poor  boy's  health," 
and  had  thought  any  notice  of  Mr.  Pen  and  his  newspaper  con- 
nections quite  below  his  dignity  as  a  Major  and  a  gentleman. 

But  when  the  oracular  Wenham  praised  the  boN's  produc- 
tion ;  when  Lord  Falconet,  who  had  had  the  news  from  Percy 
Popjoy,  approved  of  the  genius  of  young  Pen  ;  when  the  great 
Lord  Ste3'ne  himself,  to  whom  the  Major  referred  the  article, 
laughed  and  sniggered  over  it,  swore  it  was  capital,  and  that 
the  Muffborough  would  writhe  under  it,  like  a  whale  under  a 
harpoon,  the  Major,  as  in  duty  bound,  began  to  admire  his 
nephew  very  much,  said,  "  By  gad,  the  young  rascal  had  some 
stufl'  in  him,  and  would  do  something  ;  he  had  always  said  he 
would  do  something ; "  and  with  a  hand  quite  tremulous  with 
pleasure,  the  old  gentleman  sat  down  to  write  to  the  widow  at 
Fairoaks  all  that  the  great  folks  had  said  in  praise  of  Pen  ;  and 
he  wrote  to  the  3'oung  rascal,  too,  asking  when  he  would  come 
and  eat  a  chop  with  his  old  uncle,  and  sajing  that  he  was  com- 
missioned to  take  him  to  dinner  at  Gaunt  LTouse,  for  Lord 
Steyne  liked  anybod}'  who  could  entertain  him,  whether  b}'  his 
foil}-,  wit,  or  bj'  his  dulness,  bj-  his  oddity,  affectation,  good 
spirits,  or  an}'  other  qualit}'.  Pen  flung  his  letter  across  the 
table  to  Warrington  ;  perhaps  he  was  disappointed  that  the 
other  did  not  seem  to  be  much  afl'ected  by  it. 

The  courage  of  3'oung  critics  is  prodigious  :  they  clamber  up 
to  the  judgment  seat,  and,  with  scarce  a  hesitation,  give  their 
opinion  upon  works  the  most  intricate  or  profound.  Had 
Macaulay's  Historj-  or  Herschel's  Asti'onomy  been  put  before 
Pen  at  this  period,  he  would  have  looked  through  the  volumes, 
meditated  his  opinion  over  a  cigar,  and  signified  his  august 
approval  of  either  author,  as  if  the  critic  had  been  their  born 
superior  and  indulgent  master  and  patron.  By  the  help  of  the 
Biographic  Universelle  or  the  British  Museum,  he  would  be 
able  to  take  a  rapid  resume  of  a  historical  period,  and  allude  to 
names,  dates,  and  facts,  in  such  a  masterl}',  easy  way,  as  to 
astonish  his  mamma  at  home,  who  wondered  where  her  lio\' 
could  have  acquired  such  a  prodigious  store  of  reading,  and 
himself,  too,  when  he  came  to  read  over  his  articles  two  or 
three  months  after  the}'  had  been  composed,  and  when  he  had 
forgotten  the  subject  and  the  books  which  he  had  consulted. 
At  that  period  of  his  life  Mr.  Pen  owns,  that  he  would  not  have 
hesitated,  at  twenty-four  hours'  notice,  to  pass  an  opinion  ujion 
the  greatest  scholars,  or  to  give  a  judgment  upon  the  Encyclo- 


PENDENNIS  ^  357 

pfedia.  LuekUy  he  had  Warrington  to  laugh  at  him  and  to 
keep  down  his  impertinence  b}-  a  constant  and  wholesome  ridi- 
cule, or  he  might  have  become  conceited  beyond  all  sutlerance  , 
for  Shandon  liked  the  dash  and  flippancy  of  his  young  aide-de- 
camp, and  was,  indeed,  better  pleased  with  Pen's  light  and 
brilliant  Hashes,  than  with  the  heavier  metal  which  his  elder 
coadjutor  brought  to  bear. 

But  though  he  might  justly  be  blamed  on  the  score  of  im- 
pertinence and  a  certain  prematurity  of  judgment,  Mr.  Pen 
was  a  perfectly  honest  critic  ;  a  great  deal  too  candid  for  Mr. 
Bungay's  purposes,  indeed,  who  grumbled  sadly  at  his  impar- 
tiality. Pen  and  his  chief,  the  Captain,  had  a  dispute  upon 
this  subject  one  day.  ''In  the  name  of  common  sense,  Mr. 
Pendennis,"  Shandon  asked,  "what  have  you  been  doing  — 
praising  one  of  Mr.  Bacon's  books?  Bunga3'  has  been  with 
me  in  a  fury  this  morning,  at  seeing  a  hiudatory  article  upon 
one  of  the  works  of  the  odious  firm  over  the  way." 

Pen's  eyes  opened  with  wide  astonishment.  ''  Do  you  mean 
to  sa}',"  he  asked,  '•  that  we  are  to  praise  no  books  that  Bacon 
publishes  :  or  that,  if  the  books  are  good,  we  are  to  say  they 
are  bad  ?  " 

"My  good  young  friend  —  for  what  do  yon  suppose  a 
benevolent  publisher  undertakes  a  critical  journal,  to  benefit 
his  rival?  "  Shandon  inquired. 

"  To  benefit  himself  certainly,  but  to  tell  the  truth,  too," 
Pen  said  —  *'  ruat  ccebirn,  to  tell  the  truth." 

"And  my  prospectus,"  said  Shandon,  with  a  laugh  and  a 
sneer;  "do  you  consider  that  was  a  work  of  mathematical 
accuracy  of  statement  ?  " 

"  Pardon  me,  that  is  not  the  question,"  Pen  said  ;  "  and  I 
don't  think  you  very  much  care  to  argue  it.  I  had  some  qualms 
of  conscience  about  that  same  prospectus,  and  debated  the 
matter  with  mj-  friend  Warrington.  We  agreed,  however," 
Pen  said,  lauglaing,  "  that  because  the  prospectus  was  rather 
declamatory  and  poetical,  and  the  giant  was  painted  upon  the 
show-board  rather  larger  than  the  original,  who  was  inside  the 
caravan,  we  need  not  be  too  scrupulous  about  this  trifling  inac- 
curacy, but  might  do  our  part  of  the  show,  without  loss  of 
character  or  remorse  of  conscience.  We  are  the  fiddlers,  and 
play  our  tunes  only ;  you  are  the  showman." 

"And  leader  of  the  van,"  said  Shandon.  "Well,  I  am 
glad  that  your  conscience  gave  aou  leave  to  play  for  us." 

"  Yes,  but,"  said  Pen,  with  a  fine  sense  of  tlie  dignity  of  his 
position,  "  we  are  all  party  men  in  England,  and  I  will  stick  to 


358  PENDENNIS. 

my  party  like  a  Briton.  1  will  be  as  good-natured  as  you  like 
to  our  own  side,  be  is  a  fool  who  quarrels  with  his  own  nest; 
and  I  will  hit  the  enemy  as  hard  as  you  like  —  but  with  fair 
play,  Captain,  if  you  please.  One  can't  tell  all  the  truth,  I 
suppose  ;  but  one  can  tell  nothing  but  the  truth  :  tind  I  would 
rather  starve,  by  Jove,  and  never  earn  another  penny  by  mv 
pen  "  (this  redoubted  instrument  had  now  been  in  use  ibr  some 
six  weeks,  and  Pen  spoke  of  it  with  vast  enthusiasm  and  respect) 
"  than  strike  an  opponent  an  unfair  blow,  or,  if  called  upon  to 
place  him,  rank  him  below  his  honest  desert." 

"Well,  Mr.  Peudennis,  when  we  want  Bacon  smashed,  we 
must  get  some  other  hammer  to  do  it,"  IShandon  said,  with 
fatal  good-nature  ;  and  very  likely  thought  within  himself,  "  A 
few  years  hence  perhaps  the  3oung  gentleman  won't  be  so 
squeamish."  The  veteran  Condottiere  himself  was  no  louder 
so  scrupulous.  He  had  fought  and  kiUed  on  so  man}-  a  side 
for  many  a  year  past,  that  remorse  had  long  left  him.  "  Gad," 
said  he,  "  you've  a  tender  conscience,  Mr.  Pendennis.  It's  the 
luxury  of  all  novices,  and  I  may  have  had  one  once  myself; 
but  that  sort  of  bloom  wears  off  with  the  rubbing  of  the  world, 
and  I'm  not  going  to  the  trouble  myself  of  putting  on  an  artificial 
complexion,  like  our  pious  friend  Wenham,  or  our  model  of 
virtue,  Wagg." 

"I  don't  know  whether  some  people's  hypocrisy  is  not 
better,  Captain,  than  others'  cynicism." 

"  It's  more  profitable,  at  any  rate,"  said  the  Captain,  biting 
his  nails.  "  That  Wenham  is  as  dull  a  quack  as  ever  quacked  : 
and  you  see  the  carriage  in  which  he  drove  to  dinner.  'Faith, 
it'll  be  a  long  time  before  Mrs.  Shandon  will  take  a  drive  in  her 
own  chariot.  God  help  her,  poor  thing !  "  And  Pen  went 
away  from  his  chief,  after  their  little  dispute  and  colloquy, 
pointing  his  own  moral  to  the  Captain's  tale,  and  thinking  "to 
himself,  "Behold  this  man,  stored  with  genius,  wit,  learning, 
and  a  hundred  good  natural  gifts  :  see  how  he  has  wrecked 
them,  by  paltering  with  his  honesty,  and  forgetting  to  respect 
himself.  Wilt  thou  remember  thyself,  O  Pen?  thou  art  con- 
ceited enough !  Wilt  thou  sell  thy  honor  for  a  ])ottle  ?  No, 
by  heaven's  grace,  we  will  be  honest,  whatever  befalls,  and  our 
mouths  shall  only  speak  the  truth  when  they  open." 

A  punishment,  or,  at  least,  a  trial,  was  in  store  for  Mr.  Pen. 
In  the  very  next  Number  of  the  "  Pall  Mall  Gazette,"  Warring- 
ton read  out,  with  roars  of  laughter,  an  article  which  by  no 
means  amused  Arthur  Pendennis,  who  was  himself  at  work 
with  a  criticism  for  the  next  week's  Number  oi"  the  same  journal ; 


PEXDEXXIS.  359 

aud  in  which  the  "  Spring  Annual "  was  ferociously  maltreated 
by  some  unknown  writer.  The  person  of  all  most  cruelh'  mauled 
was  Pen  himself.  His  verses  had  not  appeared  with  his  own 
name  in  the  •'  Spring  Annual,"  but  under  an  assumed  signature. 
As  he  had  refused  to  review  the  book,  Shandon  had  handed  it 
over  to  Mr.  Bludyer,  with  directions  to  that  author  to  dispose 
of  it.  And  he  had  done  so  eti'ectually.  Mr.  Bludjer,  who  was 
a  man  of  very  considerable  talent,  and  of  a  race  which,  I  be- 
lieve, is  quite  extinct  in  the  press  of  our  time,  had  a  certain 
notoriety  in  his  profession,  and  reputation  for  savage  humor. 
He  smashed  and  trampled  down  the  poor  spring  flowers  wath  no 
more  mercy  than  a  bull  would  have  on  a  parterre ;  and  having 
cut  up  the  volume  to  his  heart's  content,  went  and  sold  it  at  a 
bookstall,  and  purchased  a  pint  of  brandy  with  the  proceeds  of 
the  volume. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

WHERE  PEN  APPEARS  IN  TOWN  AND  COUNTRY. 

Let  us  be  allowed  to  pass  over  a  few  months  of  the  historv  of 
Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis's  lifetime,  duiing  the  which  man}-  events 
may  have  occui-red  which  were  more  interesting  and  exciting 
to  himself,  than  they  would  be  likely  to  prove  to  the  reader  of 
his  present  memoirs.  We  left  him,  in  the  last  chapter,  regularly 
entered  upon  his  business  as  a  pi'ofessional  writer,  or  literary 
hack,  as  Mr.  Wanington  chooses  to  style  himself  and  his  friend  ; 
and  we  know  how  the  life  of  any  hack,  legal  or  literary,  in  a 
curacy,  or  in  a  marching  regiment,  or  at  a  merchant's  desk,  is 
full  of  routine,  and  tedious  of  description.  One  day's  labor 
resembles  another  much  too  closely.  A  Uterary  man  has  often 
*^  work  for  his  bread  against  time,  or  against  his  will,  or  in 
^pite  of  his  health,  or  of  his  indolence,  or  of  his  repugnance 
to  the  subject  on  which  he  is  called  to  exert  himself,  just  like 
any  other  daily  toiler.  When  you  want  to  make  money  b}- 
Pegasus  (as  he  must,  perhaps,  who  has  no  other  salable  prop- 
erty), farewell  poetry  and  aerial  flights:  Pegasus  only  rises 
now  like  Mr.  Green's  balloon,  at  periods  advertised  beforehand, 
and  when  the  spectators'  money  has  been  paid.  Pegasus  trots 
in  harness,  over  the  stou}-  pavement,  and  pulls  a  cart  or  a  cab 
behind  him.     Often  Pegasus  does  his  work  with  panting  sides 


360  PENDENNIS. 

and  trembling  knees,  and  not  seldom  gets  a  cut  of  the  whip 
from  his  driver. 

Do  not  let  us,  however,  be  too  prodigal  of  our  pit}-  upon 
Pegasus.  There  is  no  reason  why  this  animal  should  be  ex- 
empt from  labor,  or  illness,  or  decay,  any  more  than  any  of  the 
other  creatures  of  God's  world.  If  he  gets  the  whip,  Pegasus 
very  often  deserves  it,  and  I  for  one  am  quite  ready  to  protest 
witii  my  friend,  George  Warrington,  against  the  doctrine  which 
some  poetical  sympathizers  are  inclined  to  put  forward,  viz., 
that  men  of  letters,  and  what  is  called  genius,  are  to  be  ex- 
empt from  the  prose  duties  of  this  daily,  bread-wanting,  tax- 
paying  life,  and  are  not  to  be  made  to  work  and  pay  like  their 
neighbors. 

Well  then,  the  "  Pall  Mall  Gazette"  being  duly  established, 
and  Arthur  Pendennis's  merits  recognized  as  a  flippant,  witty, 
and  amusing  critic,  he  worked  awa^^  hard  every  week,  preparing 
reviews  of  such  works  as  came  into  his  department,  and  writing 
his  reviews  with  flippanc}^  certainly,  but  with  honesty,  and  to 
the  best  of  his  power.  It  might  be  that  a  liistorian  of  three- 
score, who  had  spent  a  quarter  of  a  century  in  composing  a 
work  of  which  our  young  gentleman  disposed  in  the  course  of 
a  couple  of  days'  reading  at  the  British  Museum,  was  not  alto- 
gether fairly  treated  by  such  a  facile  critic  ;  or  that  a  poet,  who 
had  been  elaborating  sublime  sonnets  and  odes  until  he  thought 
them  tit  for  the  public  and  for  fame,  was  annoyed  by  two  or  three 
dozen  pert  lines  in  Mr.  Pen's  review,  in  which  the  poet's  claims 
were  settled  by  the  critic,  as  if  the  latter  were  my  lord  on  the 
bench,  and  the  author  a  miserable  little  suitor  trembling  before 
him.  The  actors  at  the  theatres  complained  of  him  wofull}^ 
too,  and  very  likely  he  was  too  hard  upon  them.  But  there 
was  not  much  harm  done  after  all.  It  is  different  now,  as 
we  know  ;  but  there  were  so  few  great  historians,  or  great 
poets,  or  great  actors,  in  Pen's  time,  that  scarce  any  at  all  came 
up  for  judgment  before  his  critical  desk.  Those  who  got  a 
little  whipphig,  got  what  in  the  main  was  good  for  them  ;  not 
that  the  judge  was  an}-  better  or  wiser  than  the  persons  whom 
he  sentenced,  or  indeed  ever  fancied  himself  so.  Pen  had  a 
strong  sense  of  humor  and  justice,  and  had  not  therefore  an 
overweening  respect  for  liis  own  works  ;  besides,  he  had  his 
friend  Warrington  at  his  elbow  —  a  terrible  critic  if  the  young 
man  was  disposed  to  be  conceited  and  more  savage  over  Pen 
than  ever  he  was  to  those  whom  he  tried  at  his  literary  assize. 

By  these  critical  labors,  and  by  occasional  contributions  to 
leading  articles  of  the  journal,    when,  without  wounding  his 


PENDENNIS.  361 

paper,  this  eminent  publicist  could  conscientioush'  speak  his 
mind,  Mr.  Arthur  Peudennis  gained  the  sum  of  four  pounds 
four  shillings  weekly,  and  with  no  small  pains  and  labor.  Like- 
wise he  furnished  Magazines  and  Reviews  with  articles  of  his 
composition,  and  is  believed  to  have  been  (though  on  this  score 
he  never  chooses  to  speak )  London  correspondent  of  the  "  Chat- 
teris Cliampion,"  which  at  that  time  contained  some  very  bril- 
liant and  eloquent  letters  from  the  metropolis.  By  these  labors 
the  fortunate  youth  was  enabled  to  earn  a  sum  ver^-  nearly  equal 
to  four  hundred  pounds  a  year  ;  and  on  the  second  Christmas 
after  his  arrival  in  London,  he  actually  brought  a  hundred 
pounds  to  his  mother,  as  a  dividend  upon  the  debt  which 
he  owed  to  Laura.  That  Mrs.  Pendennis  read  ever}-  word  of 
her  son's  works,  and  considered  him  to  be  the  profoundest 
thinker  and  most  elegant  writer  of  the  day  ;  that  she  thought 
his  retribution  of  the  Inmdred  pounds  an  act  of  angelic  virtue  ; 
that  she  feared  he  was  ruining  his  health  by  his  labors,  and  was 
delighted  when  he  told  her  of  the  society-  which  he  met,  and  of 
the  great  men  of  letters  and  fashion  whom  he  saw,  will  be  imag- 
ined b}-  all  readers  who  have  seen  son-worship  amongst  mothers, 
and  that  charming  simplieit}'  of  love  with  which  women  in  the 
country  watch  the  career  of  their  darlings  in  London.  If  John 
has  held  such  and  such  a  brief ;  if  Tom  has  been  iuA'ited  to  such 
and  such  a  ball ;  or  George  has  met  this  or  that  great  and 
famous  man  at  dinner  :  what  a  delight  there  is  in  the  hearts  of 
mothers  and  sisters  at  home  in  Somersetshire  !  How  young 
Hopeful's  letters  are  read  and  remembered !  Wliat  a  theme 
for  village  talk  they  give,  and  friendly  congratulation  !  In  the 
second  winter.  Pen  came  for  a  verj'  brief  space,  and  cheered 
the  widow's  heart,  and  lightened  up  the  lonely  house  at  Fair- 
oaks.  Helen  had  her  son  all  to  herself;  Laura  was  awa^'  on  a 
visit  to  old  Lady  Rockminster ;  the  folks  of  Clavering  Park 
were  absent ;  the  ver}'  few  old  friends  of  the  house.  Doctor 
Portman  at  their  head,  called  upon  Mr.  Pen,  and  treated  him 
with  marked  respect ;  between  mother  and  son,  it  was  all  fond- 
ness, confidence,  and  affection.  It  was  the  happiest  fortnight 
of  the  widow's  whole  life  ;  perhaps  in  the  lives  of  both  of  them. 
The  holiday  was  gone  onl}'  too  quickly  ;  and  Pen  was  back  in 
the  bus}'  world,  and  the  gentle  widow  alone  again.  She  sent 
Arthur's  mone}'  to  Laura :  I  don't  know  why  this  young  lady- 
took  the  opportunity  of  leaving  home  when  Pen  was  coming 
thither,  or  whether  he  was  the  more  piqued  or  relieved  by  her 
absence. 

He  was  by  this  time,  by  his  own  merits  and  his  uncle's  Intro- 


362  PENDENNIS. 

diictions,  pretty  well  introduced  into  London,  and  known  both 
in  literary  and  polite  circles.  Amongst  the  former  his  fashion- 
able reputation  stood  him  in  no  little  stead  ;  he  was  considered 
to  be  a  gentleman  of  good  present  means  and  better  expecta- 
tions, who  wrote  for  his  pleasure,  than  which  there  cannot  be  a 
greater  recommendation  to  a  young  literary-  aspirant.  Bacon, 
Bungay,  and  Co.  were  prond  to  accept  his  articles  ;  Mr.  Wen- 
ham  asked  him  to  dinner;  Mr.  Wagg  looked  upon  him  with  a 
favorable  eye  ;  and  they  reported  how  they  met  him  at  the 
houses  of  persons  of  fashion,  amongst  whom  he  was  pretty 
welcome,  as  they  did  not  trouble  themselves  about  his  means, 
present  or  future  ;  as  his  appearance  and  address  were  good ; 
and  as  he  had  got  a  character  for  being  a  clever  fellow.  Finally, 
he  was  asked  to  one  house,  because  he  was  seen  at  another 
house :  and  thus  no  small  varieties  of  London  life  were  pre- 
sented to  the  young  man  :  he  was  made  familiar  with  all  sorts 
of  people  from  Paternoster  Row  to  Piralico,  and  was  as  much 
at  home  at  Mayfair  dining-tables  as  at  those  tavern  boards 
where  some  of  his  companions  of  the  pen  were  accustomed  to 
assemble. 

Full  of  high  spirits  and  curiosity,  easily  adapting  himself  to 
all  whom  he  met,  the  young  fellow  pleased  himself  in  this 
strange  variety  and  jumble  of  men,  and  made  himself  welcome, 
or  at  ease  at  least,  wherever  he  went.  He  would  breakfast,  for 
instance,  at  Mr.  Plover's  of  a  morning,  in  company  with  a  Peer, 
a  Bishop,  a  parliamentary  orator,  two  blue  ladies  of  fashion,  a 
popular  preacher,  the  author  of  the  last  new  novel,  and  the 
ver3'  latest  lion  imported  from  Egypt  or  from  America ;  and 
would  quit  this  distinguished  society  for  the  back  room  at  the 
newspaper  office,  wh»L./e  pens  and  ink  and  the  wet  proof  sheets 
were  awaiting  him.  Here  would  be  Finucane,  the  sub-editor, 
with  the  last  news  from  the  Row  :  and  Shandon  would  come  In 
presently,  and  giving  a  nod  to  Pen,  would  begin  scribbling  his 
leading  article  at  the  other  end  of  the  table,  flanked  by  the 
pint  of  sherr}-,  which,  when  the  attendant  boy  beheld  him,  was 
always  silently  brought  for  the  Captain  :  or  Mr.  Bludyer's  roar- 
ing voice  would  be  heard  in  the  front  room ,  where  the  truculent 
critic  would  impound  the  books  on  the  counter  in  spite  of  the 
timid  remonstrances  of  Mr.  Midge,  the  publisher,  and  after 
looking  through  the  volumes  would  sell  them  at  his  accustomed 
book-stall,  and  having  drunken  and  dine(|  upon  the  produce  of 
the  sale  in  a  tavern  box,  would  call  for  ink  and  paper,  and 
proceed  to  "smash"  the  author  of  his  dinner  and  the  novel. 
Towards  evening  Mr.  Pen  would  stroll  in  the  direction  of  his 


PENDENNIS.  363 

club,  and  take  up  Wamngton  there  for  a  constitutional  walk. 
This  exercise  freed  the  lungs,  and  gave  an  api)etite  for  dinner, 
at\er  which  Pen  had  the  privilege  to  make  his  bow  at  some  very 
l)leasant  houses  which  were  open  to  him  ;  or  the  town  before 
him  for  amusement.  There  was  the  Opera  ;  or  the  Eagle  Tav- 
ern ;  or  a  ball  to  go  to  in  May  Fair ;  or  a  quiet  night  with  a 
cigar  and  a  book  and  a  long  talk  with  Warrington  ;  or  a  won- 
derful new  song  at  the  Back  Kitchen  ;  —  at  this  time  of  his  life 
^Ir.  Pen  beheld  all  sorts  of  places  and  men  ;  and  very  likely  did 
not  know  how  much  he  enjoyed  himself  until  long  after,  whea 
balls  gave  him  no  pleasure,  neither  did  farces  make  him  laugh ; 
nor  did  the  tavern  joke  produce  the  least  excitement  in  him  ; 
nor  did  the  loveliest  dancer  that  ever  showed  her  ankles  cause 
him  to  stir  from  his  chair  after  dinner.  At  his  present  mature 
age  all  these  pleasures  are  over :  and  the  times  have  passed 
awa}'  too.  It  is  but  a  very  verv  few  years  since  ■ —  but  the  time 
is  gone,  and  most  of  the  men.  Blud3-er  will  no  more  bully 
authors  or  cheat  landlords  of  their  score.  Shandon,  the  learned 
and  thriftless,  the  witty  and  unwise,  sleeps  his  last  sleep.  The}' 
buried  honest  Doolan  the  other  day :  never  will  he  cringe  or 
flatter,  never  pull  long-bow  or  empty  whiske3^-noggin  any 
more. 

The  London  season  was  now  blooming  in  its  full  vigor,  and 
the  fashionable  newspapers  abounded  with  information  regard- 
ing the  grand  banquets,  routs,  and  balls  which  were  enlivening 
the  polite  world.  Our  gracious  Sovereign  was  holding  IcA^ees 
and  drawing-rooms  at  St.  James's :  the  bow- windows  of  the 
clubs  were  crowded  with  the  heads  of  res])ectable  red-faced 
newspaper-reading  gentlemen :  along  the  Serpentine  trailed 
thousands  of  carriages  :  squadrons  of  dandy  horsemen  tram- 
pled over  Rotten  Row  :  everybod}'  was  in  town  in  a  word  :  and 
of  course  Major  Arthur  Pendennis,  who  was  somebody,  was  not 
absent. 

With  his  head  tied  up  in  a  smart  bandana  handkerchief,  and 
his  meagre  carcass  enveloped  in  a  brilliant  Turkish  dressing- 
gown,  the  worth}'  gentlemarr  sat  on  a  certain  morning  b}^  his 
fireside,  letting  his  feet  gently  simmer  in  a  bath,  whilst  he  took 
his  early  cup  of  tea,  and  perused  his  "  Morning  Post."  He 
could  not  have  faced  the  day  without  his  two  hours'  toilet, 
without  his  earh'  cup  of  tea,  without  his  "Morning  Post." 
I  suppose  nobod}-  in  the  world  except  Morgan,  not  even  Mor- 
gan's master  himself,  knew  how  feeble  and  ancient  the  Major 
was  growing,  and  what  numberless  little  comforts  he  required. 


364  PENDENNIS. 

If  men  sneer,  as  our  habit  is,  at  the  artifices  of  an  oU 
beauty,  at  her  paint,  perfumes,  ringlets  ;  at  those  innumerable, 
and  to  us  unknown  stratagems  with  which  she  is  said  to  remedy 
the  ravages  of  time  and  reconstruct  the  charms  whereof  years 
have  bereft  her;  the  ladies,  it  is  to  be  presumed,  are  not  on 
their  side  altogether  iguorant  that  men  are  vain  as  well  as  they, 
and  that  the  toilets  of  old  bucks  are  to  the  full  as  elaborate  as  their 
own.  How  is  it  that  old  Blushington  keeps  that  coustant  little 
rose-tint  on  his  cheeks  ;  and  where  does  old  Blondel  get  the  prepa- 
ration which  makes  his  silver  hair  pass  for  golden  ?  Have  you 
ever  seen  Lord  Hotspur  get  olf  his  horse  when  he  thinks  nobody 
is  looking?  Taken  out  of  his  stin-ups,  his  shiny  boots  can 
hardly  totter  up  the  steps  of  Hotspur  House.  He  is  a  dasliing 
3^oung  nobleman  still  as  you  see  the  back  of  him  in  Rotten 
Row ;  when  30U  behold  him  on  foot,  what  an  old,  old  fellow ! 
Did  you  ever  form  to  yourself  any  idea  of  Dick  Lacy  (Dick  has 
been  Dick  these  sixty  years)  in  a  natural  state,  and  without  his 
stays?  All  these  men' are  objects  whom  the  observer  of  human 
life  and  manners  may  contemplate  with  as  much  profit  as  the 
most  elderly  Belgravian  Venus,  or  inveterate  Mayfair  Jezebel. 
An  old  reprobate  daddy-long-legs,  who  has  never  said  his  prayers 
(except  perhaps  in  public)  these  fifty  years  :  an  old  buck  who 
still  clings  to  as  many  of  the  habits  of  youth  as  his  feeble  grasp 
of  health  can  hold  by  :  who  has  given  up  the  bottle,  but  sits 
with  young  fellows  over  it,  and  tells  naughty  stories  upon  toast 
and  water  —  who  has  given  up  beauty,  but  still  talks  about  it  as 
wickedly  as  the  youngest  roue  in  company  —  such  an  old  fellow, 
I  say,  if  any  parson  in  Pimlico  or  St.  James's  were  to  order  the 
beadles  to  bring  him  into  the  middle  aisle,  and  there  set  him  in 
an  arm-chair,  and  make  a  text  of  him,  and  preach  about  him 
to  the  congregation,  could  be  turned  to  a  wholesome  use  for 
once  in  his  life,  and  might  be  surprised  to  find  that  some  good 
thoughts  came  out  of  him.  But  we  are  wandering  from  our 
text,  the  honest  Major,  who  sits  all  this  while  with  his  feet 
cooling  in  the  bath  :  Morgan  takes  them  out  of  that  place  of 
purification,  and  dries  them  daintily,  and  proceeds  to  set  the 
old  gentleman  on  his  legs,  with  waistband  and  wig,  starched 
cravat,  and  spotless  boots  and  gloves. 

It  was  during  these  hours  of  the  toilet  that  Morgan  and  his 
employer  had  their  confidential  conversations,  for  they  did  not 
meet  much  at  other  times  of  the  day  —  the  Major  abhorring 
the  society  of  his  own  chairs  and  tables  in  his  lodgings  ;  and 
Morgan,  his  master's  toilet  over  and  letters  delivered,  had  his 
time  very  much  on  his  own  hands. 


PENDENNIS.  365 

This  spare  time  the  active  and  well-mannered  gentleman 
bestowed  among  the  valets  and  butlers  of  the  nobility,  his 
acquaintance  ;  and  Morgan  Pendennis,  as  he  was  styled,  for  bj' 
such  compound  names  gentlemen's  gentlemen  are  called  in  their 
private  circles,  was  a  frequent  and  welcome  guest  at  some  of 
the  very  highest  tables  in  this  town.  He  was  a  member  of  two 
influential  clubs  in  May  Fair  and  Pimlico  ;  and  he  was  thus 
enabled  to  know  the  whole  gossip  of  the  town,  and  entertain 
his  master  very  agreeably  during  the  two  hours'  toilet  conver- 
sation. He  knew  a  hundred  tales  and  legends  regarding  persons 
of  the  very  highest  ton,  whose  valets  canvass  their  august 
secrets,  just,  my  dear  madam,  as  our  own  parlcjr-maids  and 
dependants  in  the  kitchen  discuss  our  characters,  our  stinginess 
and  generosity,  our  pecuniary  means  or  embarrassments,  and 
our  little  domestic  or  connubial  tills  and  quai-rels.  If  I  leave 
this  manuscript  open  on  my  table,  I  have  not  the  slightest 
doubt  Betty  will  read  it,  and  the}-  will  talk  it  over  in  the  lower 
regions  to-night ;  and  to-morrow  she  will  bring  in  my  breakfast 
with  a  face  of  such  entire  imperturbable  innocence,  that  no 
mortal  could  suppose  her  guilt}'  of  playing  the  spy.  If  you  and 
the  Captain  have  high  words  upon  an}'  subject,  which  is  just 
possible,  the  circumstances  of  the  quarrel,  and  the  characters  of 
both  of  you,  will  be  discussed  with  impartial  eloquence  over 
the  kitchen  tea-table  ;  and  if  Mrs.  Smith's  maid  should  by 
chance  be  taking  a  dish  of  tea  with  yours,  her  presence  will 
not  undoubtedly  act  as  a  restraint  upon  the  discussion  in  ques- 
tion ;  her  opinion  will  be  given  with  candor ;  and  the  next  day 
her  mistress  will  probably  know  that  Captain  and  Mrs.  Jones 
have  been  a  quarrelling  as  usual.  Nothing  is  secret.  Take  it 
as  a  rule  that  John  knows  everything  :  and  as  in  our  humble 
world  so  in  the  greatest :  a  duke  is  no  more  a  hero  to  his  valet- 
de-chamhre  than  you  or  I ;  and  his  Grace's  Man  at  his  club, 
in  company  doubtless  with  other  Men  of  equal  social  rank, 
talks  over  his  master's  character  and  attairs  with  the  ingenuous 
truthfulness  wiiich  befits  gentlemen  who  are  met  together  iu 
confidence.  Who  is  a  niggard  and  screws  up  his  money-boxes  : 
who  is  in  the  hands  of  the  money-lenders,  and  is  putting  his 
noble  name  on  the  back  of  bills  of  exchange  :  who  is  intimate 
with  whose  wife :  who  wants  whom  to  marry  her  daughter,  and 
which  he  won't,  no  not  at  any  price  :  —  all  these  facts  gentle- 
men's confidential  gentlemen  discuss  confidentially,  and  are 
known  and  examined  by  every  person  who  has  any  claim  to 
rank  in  genteel  society.  In  a  word,  if  old  Pendennis  himself 
was  sai<l  to  know  everything,  and  was  at  once  admirably  scan- 


366  PEN  DENNIS. 

dalous  and  delightful!}'  discreet,  it  is  but  justice  to  Morgan  to 
saj',  that  a  great  deal  of  his  master's  information  was  supplied 
to  that  worth}'  man  b}'  his  valet,  who  went  out  and  foraged 
knowledge  for  him.  Indeed,  what  more  efleetual  plan  is  there 
to  get  a  knowledge  of  London  society,  than  to  begin  at  the 
foundation  —  that  is,  at  the  kitchen  floor? 

So  Mr.  Morgan  and  his  employer  conversed  as  the  latter's 
toilet  proceeded.  There  had  been  a  Drawing-room  on  tlie  day 
previous,  and  the  Major  read  among  the  presentations  that  of 
Lad}-  Clavering  by  Lady  Rockminster,  and  of  Miss  Amory  by 
her  mother  Lady  Clavering,  —  and  in  a  further  part  of  the 
paper  their  dresses  were  described,  with  a  precision  and  in  a 
jargon  which  will  puzzle  and  amuse  the  antiquary  of  future 
generations.  The  sight  of  these  names  carried  Pendennis  back 
to  the  country.  ' '  How  long  have  the  Claverings  been  in  Lon- 
don? "  he  asked  ;  "  pray,  Morgan,  have  you  seen  any  of  their 
people  ?  " 

"  Sir  Francis  have  sent  away  his  foring  man,  sir,"  Mr. 
Morgan  replied  ;  "  and  have  took  a  friend  of  mine  as  own  man, 
sir.  Indeed  he  applied  on  my  reckmendation.  You  may  reck- 
lect  Towler,  sir,  —  tall  red-aired  man  —  but  dyes  his  air.  Was 
groom  of  the  chambers  in  Lord  LcA^ant's  famly  till  his  Lord- 
ship broke  hup.  It's  a  fall  for  Towler,  sir  ;  but  pore  men  can't 
be  particklar,"  said  the  valet,  with  a  pathetic  voice. 

"  Devilish  hard  on  Towler,  by  gad !  "  said  the  Major, 
amused,  "  and  not  pleasant  for  Lord  Levant  —  he,  he  !  " 

"Always  knew  it  was  coming,  sir.  I  spoke  to  you  of  it 
Michaelmas  was  four  years  :  when  her  Ladyship  put  the  dia- 
monds in  pawn.  It  was  Towler,  sir,  took  'em  in  two  cabs  to 
Dobree's  —  and  a  good  deal  of  the  plate  went  the  same  way. 
Don't  you  remember  seeing  of  it  at  Blackwall,  wnth  the  Levant 
arms  and  coronick,  and  Lord  Levant  settn  oppsit  to  it  at  the 
Marquis  of  Steyne's  dinner?  Beg  your  pardon  ;  did  I  cut  you, 
sir  ?  " 

Morgan  was  now  operating  upon  the  Major's  chin  —  he  con- 
tinued the  theme  while  strapping  the  skilful  razor.  "  They've 
took  a  house  in  Grosvenor  Place,  and  are  coming  out  strong, 
sir.  Her  ladyship's  going  to  give  three  parties,  besides  a 
dinner  a  week,  sir.  Her  fortune  won't  stand  it  —  can't  stand 
it." 

"■  Gad,  she  had  a  devilish  good  cook  w^hen  I  was  at  Fair- 
oaks,"  the  Major  said,  with  very  little  compassion  for  the  widow 
Amory's  fortune. 

"•  ikiarobblan  was  his  name,  sir;  — Marobblan's  gone  away, 


PENDENNIS.  367 

sir,"  Morgan  said,  —  and  the  Major,  this  time,  witti  hearty 
sympath}-,  said,  "  he  was  devilish  sorry  to  lose  hini." 

••  There's  been  a  tremenjiious  row  about  that  Mosseer  Ma* 
robblan,"  Morgan  conthiued.  '•  At  a  ball  at  liaymouth,  sir, 
bless  his  inipadence,  he  challenged  Mr.  Harthur  to  light  a  jewel, 
sir,  which  ]\Ir.  Harthur  was  very  near  knocking  him  down,  and 
pitchin'  him  outawinder,  and  serve  him  right ;  but  Chevalier 
Strong,  sir,  came  up  and  stopped  the  shindy  —  I  beg  pardon, 
the  holtercation,  sir  —  them  French  cooks  has  as  much  pride 
and  hinsolence  as  if  they  was  real  gentlemen." 

'•  I  heard  something  of  that  quarrel,"  said  the  Major  ;  "  but 
Mirobolant  was  not  turned  otf  for  that?" 

"No,  sir — that  atfair,  sir,  which  Mr.  Harthur  forgave  it 
him  and  beaved  most  handsome,  was  hushed  hup :  it  was 
about  Miss  Hamory,  sir,  that  he  ad  is  dismissial.  Those  French 
fellers,  they  fanc}'  everybody  is  in  love  with  'em ;  and  he 
climbed  up  the  large  grape-vine  to  her  winder,  sir,  and  was  a 
trying  to  get  in,  when  he  was  caught,  sir ;  and  Mr.  Strong 
came  out,  and  they  got  the  garden-engine  and  played  on  him, 
and  there  was  no  end  of  a  row,  sir." 

"Confound  his  impudence!  You  don't  mean  to  say  Miss 
Amory  encouraged  him,"  cried  the  Major,  amazed  at  a  peculiar 
expression  in  Mr.  Morgan's  countenance. 

Morgan  resumed  his  imperturbable  demeanor.  "  Know 
nothing  about  it,  sir.  Servants  don't  know  them  kind  of  things 
the  least.  Most  probbly  there  was  nothing  in  it  —  so  many 
lies  is  told  about  families  —  Marobblan  went  away,  bag  and 
baggage,  saucepans,  and  pianna,  and  all  —  the  feller  ad  a 
pianna,  and  wrote  potr}'  in  French,  and  he  took  a  lodging  at 
Clavering,  and  he  hankered  about  the  primises.  and  it  was  said 
that  Madame  Fribsby,  the  milliner,  brought  letters  to  Miss 
Hamor}',  though  I  don't  believe  a  word  al)out  it ;  nor  that  he 
tried  to  ])ison  hisself  with  charcoal,  which  it  was  all  a  humbug 
betwigst  him  and  Madame  Fribsby  ;  and  he  was  nearly  shot  by 
the  keeper  in  the  park." 

In  the  course  of  that  very  day,  it  chanced  that  the  MajoiP 
had  stationed  himself  in  the  great  window  of  Bays's  Club  in 
St.  James's  Street,  at  the  hour  in  the  afternoon  when  you  see 
a  half-score  of  respectable  old  bucks  similarly  recreating  them- 
selves (Bays's  is  rather  an  old-fashioned  place  of  resort  now, 
and  many  of  its  members  more  than  middle-aged  ;  but  in  the 
time  of  the  Prince  Regent,  those  old  ftillows  occupied  the  same 
window,  and  were  some  of  the  very  greatest  dandies  in  this 


368  PENDENNIS. 

empire)  —  Major  Pendennis  was  looking  from  the  great  window, 
and  spied  iiis  nepliew  Arthur  walking  down  the  street  in  com- 
panj'  with  his  friend  Mr.  Popjoy. 

''Look!"  said  Popjoy  to  Pen,  as  tliey  passed,  "did  you 
ever  pass  Bays's  at  four  o'clock,  without  seeing  that  collection 
of  old  fogies?  It's  a  regular  uiuseuni.  They  ought  to  be  cast 
in  wax,  and  set  up  at  Madame  Tussaud's  —  " 

"  —  In  a  chamber  of  old  horrors  by  themselves,"  Pen  said, 
laughing. 

"—In  the  chamber  of  horrors!  Gad,  dooced  good!" 
Pop  cried.  "They  are  old  rogues,  most  of  'em,  and  no  mis- 
take. There's  old  Blondel ;  there's  my  uncle  Colchicum,  the 
most  confounded  old  sinner  in  Europe  ;  there's  —  hullo  !  there's 
somebody  rapping  the  window  and  nodding  at  us." 

"It's  my  uncle,  the  Major,"  said  Pen.  "Is  he  an  old 
sinner  too  ?  " 

"  Notorious  old  rogue,"  Pop  said,  wagging  his  head. 
("Notowious  old  wogue,"  he  pronounced  the  words,  thereby 
rendering  them  much  more  emphatic.)  "  He's  beckoning  you 
in  ;  he  wants  to  speak  to  you." 

"  Come  in  too,"  Pen  said. 

"  —  Can't,"  replied  the  other.  "Cut  uncle  Col.  two  years 
ago,  about  Mademoiselle  P'rangipane  —  Ta,  ta,"  and  the  young 
sinner  took  leave  of  Pen,  and  the  club  of  the  elder  criminals, 
and  sauntered  into  Blacquiere's,  an  adjacent  establishment, 
frequented  b}-  reprobates  of  his  own  age. 

Colchicum,  Blondel,  and  the  senior  bucks  had  just  been  con- 
versing about  the  Clavering  family,  whose  appearance  in  Lon- 
don had  formed  the  subject  of  Major  Pendennis's  morning 
conversation  with  his  valet.  Mr.  Blondel's  house  was  next  to 
that  of  Sir  Francis  Clavering,  in  Grosvenor  Place  :  giving  very 
good  dinners  himself,  he  had  remarked  some  activity  in  his 
neighbor's  kitchen.  Sir  Francis,  indeed,  had  a  new  chef,  who 
had  come  in  more  than  once  and  dressed  Mr.  Blondel's  dinner 
for  him  ;  that  gentleman  having  only  a  remarkably  expert  female 
artist  permanently  engaged  in  his  establishment,  and  employ- 
ing such  chefs  of  note  as  happened  to  be  free  on  the  occasion 
of  his  grand  banquets.  "  They  go  to  a  devilish  expense  and 
see  devilish  bad  company  as  yet,  I  hear,"  Mr.  Blondel  said,  — 
"  the}'  scour  the  streets,  by  gad.  to  get  people  to  dine  with  'em. 
Champignon  says  it  breaks  his  heart  to  serve  up  a  dinner  to 
their  society.  What  a  shame  it  is  that  those  low  people  should 
have  money  at  all,"  cried  Mi-.  Blondel,  whose  grandfather  had 
been  a  reputable  leather-breeches  maker,  and  whose  father  had 
lent  money  to  the  Princea    ' 


PENDENNIS.  369 

"  I  wish  I  had  fallen  in  with  the  widow  myself,"  sighed  Lord 
Colchicuui.  "and  not  been  laid  up  witli  that  confounded  gout 
at  Leghorn.  — I  would  have  married  the  woman  myself.  — I'm 
told  she  has  six  hundred  thousand  pounds  in  the  Threes." 

"  Not  quite  so  much  as  that,  —  I  knew  her  family  in  India," 
Major  Pendennis  said.  "I  knew  her  tamily  in  India:  her 
father  was  an  enormously  rich  old  indigo-planter,  —  know  all 
about  her,  —  Clavering  has  the  next  estate  to  ours  in  the  country. 
—  Ha!  there's  m}'  nephew  walking  with"  —  "With  mine, — 
the  infernal  young  scamp,"  said  Lord  Colchicum,  glowering  at 
Popjoy  out  of  his  heavy  eyebrows  ;  and  he  turned  away  from 
the  window  as  Major  Pendennis  tapped  upon  it. 

The  Major  was  in  high  good-humor.  The  sun  was  bright, 
the  air  brisk  and  invigorating.  He  had  determined  upon  a  visit 
to  Lady  Clavering  on  that  day,  and  bethought  him  that  Arthur 
would  be  a  good  companion  for  the  walk  across  the  Green  Park 
to  her  lad3ship's  door.  Master  Pen  was  not  displeased  to 
accompany  his  illustrious  relative,  who  pointed  out  a  dozen 
gi'eat  men  in  their  brief  transit  through  St.  James's  Street,  and 
got  bows  from  a  Duke,  at  a  crossing,  a  Bishop  (on  a  cob),  and 
a  Cabinet  Minister  with  an  umbrella.  The  Duke  gave  the  elder 
Pendennis  a  finger  of  a  pipe-clayed  glove  to  shake,  which  the 
Major  embraced  with  great  veneration  ;  and  all  Pen's  blood 
tingled,  as  he  found  himself  in  actual  communication,  as  it 
were,  with  this  famous  man  (for  Pen  had  possession  of  the 
Major's  left  arm,  whilst  that  gentleman's  other  wing  was  engaged 
with  his  Grace's  right),  and  he  wished  all  Grey  Friars'  School, 
all  Oxbridge  LTniversity,  all  Paternoster  Row  and  the  Temple, 
and  Laura  and  his  mother  at  Fairoaks,  could  be  standing  on 
each  side  of  the  street,  to  see  the  meeting  between  him  and  his 
uncle,  and  the  most  famous  duke  in  Christendom. 

"  How  do,  Pendennis  ?  —  fine  day,"  were  his  Grace's  remark- 
able words,  and  with  a  nod  of  his  august  head  he  passed  on  — 
in  a  blue  frock-coat  and  spotless  white  duck  ti'ousers,  in  a 
white  stock,  with  a  shining  buckle  behind. 

Old  Pendennis,  whose  likeness  to  his  Grace  has  been  re- 
raai'ked,  began  to  imitate  him  unconsciousl_y,  after  they  had 
parted,  speaking  with  curt  sentences,  after  the  manner  of  the 
great  man.  We  have  all  of  us,  no  doubt,  met  with  more  than 
one  military  officer  who  has  so  imitated  the  manner  of  a  certain 
Great  Captain  of  the  Age  ;  and  has,  perhaps,  changed  his  own 
natural  character  and  disposition,  because  Fate  had  endowed 
him  with  an  aquiline  nose.  In  like  manner  have  we  not  seen 
many  another  man  pride  himself  on  having  a  tall  forehead  and 

24 


370  PENDENNIS. 

a  supposed  likeness  to  Mr.  Canning  ?  many  another  go  through 
life  swelling  with  self-gratification  on  account  of  an  imagined 
resemblance  (we  say  "  imagined,"  because  that  anybodj'  should 
be  really  like  that  most  beautiful  and  perfect  of  men  is  impossi- 
ble) to  the  great  and  revered  George  IV.  :  many  tnird  parties, 
who  wore  low  necks  to  their  dresses  because  they  fancied  that 
Lord  Byron  and  themselves  were  similar  in  appearance :  and 
has  not  the  grave  closed  but  lately  upon  poor  Tom  Bickerstaff, 
who,  having  no  more  imagination  than  Mr.  Jost-ph  Hume,  looked 
in  the  glass  and  fancied  himself  like  Shakspeare?  shaved  his 
forehead  so  as  farther  to  resemble  the  immortal  bard,  wrote 
tragedies  incessantly',  and  died  perfectly'  cra^}'  —  actually  per- 
ished of  his  forehead  ?  These  or  similar  freaks  of  vanity  most 
people  who  have  frequented  the  world  must  have  seen  in  their 
experience.  Pen  laughed  in  his  roguish  sleeve  at  the  manner 
in  which  his  uncle  began  to  imitate  the  great  man  from  whom 
they  had  just  parted :  but  Mr.  Pen  was  as  vain  in  his  own  way, 
perhaps,  as  the  elder  gentleman,  and  strutted,  with  a  very  con- 
sequential air  of  his  own,  by  the  Major's  side. 

"Yes,  my  dear  boy,"  said  the  old  bachelor,  as  the}-  saun- 
tered through  the  Green  Park,  where  many  poor  children  were 
disporting  happih',  and  errand  boys  wei'c  playing  at  toss  half- 
penny, and  black  sheep  were  grazing  in  the  sunshine,  and  an 
actor  was  learning  his  part  on  a  bench,  and  nursery  maids  and 
their  charges  sauntered  here  and  there,  and  several  couples  were 
walking  in  a  leisurely  manner;  "  3'es,  depend  on  it,  my  bo}' ; 
for  a  poor  man,  there  is  nothing  like  having  good  acquaintances. 
Who  were  those  men,  with  whom  you  saw  me  in  the  bow-win- 
dow at  Bays's?  Two  were  Peers  of  the  realm.  Hobananob 
will  be  a  Peer,  as  soon  as  his  grand-uncle  dies,  and  he  has  had 
his  third  seizure  ;  and  of  the  other  four,  not  one  has  less  than 
his  seven  thousand  a  3'ear.  Did  j-ou  see  that  dark  blue  brough- 
am, with  that  tremendous  stepping  horse,  waiting  at  the  door 
of  the  club?  You'll  know  it  again.  It  is  Sir  Hugh  Trumping- 
ton's  ;  he  was  never  known  to  walk  in  his  life  ;  never  appears 
in  the  streets  on  foot  —  never  :  and  if  he  is  going  two  doors  off, 
to  see  his  mother,  the  old  dowager  (to  whom  1  shall  certainly 
introduce  you,  for  she  receives  some  of  the  best  companj^  in 
London),  gad,  sir,  he  mounts  his  horse  at  No.  23,  and  dis 
mounts  again  at  No.  25  a.  He  is  now  up  stairs,  at  Bays's, 
playing  piquet  wdth  Count  Punter  :  he  is  the  second-best  player 
in  England  —  as  well  he  may  be  ;  for  he  pla^s  every  day  of  his 
life,  except  Sundays  (for  Sir  Hugh  is  an  uncommonly  religious 
man),  from  half  past  three  till  half  past  seven,  when  he  dresses 
for  dinner." 


PEXDEXNIS.  371 

"  A  very  pious  manner  of  spending  his  time,"  Pen  said, 
laughing,  and  thinliing  that  his  uncle  was  falUng  into  the  twad- 
dling state. 

"  Gad,  sir,  that  is  not  the  question.  A  man  of  his  estate 
may  employ  his  time  as  he  chooses.  When  you  are  a  baronet, 
a  county  member,  with  ten  thousantl  acres  of  the  best  land  in 
Cheshire,  and  such  a  place  as  Trumi)ington  (though  he  never 
goes  there),  you  may  do  as  you  like." 

"  And  so  that  was  his  brougham,  sir,  was  it?"  the  nephew 
said,  with  almost  a  sneer. 

*'His  brougham  —  O  a}-,  yes! — and  that  briiigs  me  back 
to  my  point  —  revenons  a  nos  moutons.  Yes,  begad!  reve- 
nons  a  nos  moutons.  Well,  that  brougham  is  mine  if  I  choose, 
between  four  and  seven.  Just  as  much  mine  as  if  I  jobbed  it 
from  Tilbury's,  begad,  for  thirty  pound  a  mouth.  Sir  Hugh  is 
the  best-natured  fellow  in  the  world ;  and  if  it  hadn't  been  so 
fine  an  afternoon  as  it  is,  you  and  I  would  have  been  in  that 
brougham  at  this  very  minute,  on  our  way  to  Grosvenor  Place. 
That  is  the  benefit  of  knowing  rich  men  ;  —  I  dine  for  nothing, 
sir;  —  I  go  into  the  countr}-,  and  I'm  mounted  for  nothing. 
Other  fellows  keep  hounds  and  gamekeepers  for  me.  Sic  vos 
Hon  vobis,  as  we  used  to  say  at  Grey  Friars,  hey?  I'm  of  the 
opinion  of  my  old  friend  Leech,  of  the  Forty-fourth  ;  and  a 
devilish  good  shrewd  fellow  he  was,  as  most  Scotchmen  are. 
Gad,  sir,  Leech  used  to  say,  '  He  was  so  poor  that  he  couldn't 
afford  to  know  a  poor  man.' " 

"You  don't  act  up  to  your  principles,  uncle,"  Pen  said, 
good-naturedly. 

"Up  to  my  principles;  how,  sir?"  the  Major  asked,  rather 
testily. 

"  You  would  have  cut  me  in  Saint  James's  Street,  sir."  Pen 
said,  "  were  your  practice  not  more  benevolent  than  your  theor^'^ ; 
you  who  live  with  dukes  and  magnates  of  the  land,  and  would 
take  no  notice  of  a  poor  devil  like  me."  By  which  speech  we 
ma}-  see  that  Mr.  Pen  was  getting  on  in  the  world,  and  could 
flatter  as  well  as  laugh  in  his  sleeve. 

Major  Pendennis  was  appeased  instantly,  and  ver^-  much 
pleased.  He  tappcfl  affectionately  his  nephew's  arm  on  whicli 
he  was  leaning,  and  said,  —  "You,  sir,  you  are  my  flesh  and 
blood  !  Hang  it,  sir,  I've  been  ver}'  proud  of  you  and  ver}-  fond 
of  j'ou,  but  for  your  confounded  follies  and  extravagances  — 
and  wild  oats,  sir,  which  I  hope  you've  sown.  Yes,  begad  !  I 
hope  you've  sown  'em  ;  I  hope  you've  sown  'em,  liegad  !  My 
object,  Arthur,  is  io  make  a  man  of  you  —  to  see  you  well  placed 


372  PENDENNIS. 

in  the  world,  as  becomes  one  of  your  name  and  my  own,  sir. 
You  have  got  yourself  a  little  reputation  by  your  literary  talents, 
which  I  am  xevy  far  from  undervaluing,  though  in  m^'  time, 
begad,  poetr}-  and  genius  and  that  sort  of  thing  were  devilish 
disreputable.  There  was  poor  Byron,  for  instance,  who  ruined 
himself,  and  contracted  the  worst  habits  b}^  living  with  poets 
and  newspaper-writers,  and  people  of  that  kind.  But  the  times 
are  changed  now  —  there's  a  run  upon  literature  —  clever  fellows 
get  into  the  best  houses  in  town,  begad !  Tempora  mutantur^ 
sir,  and,  b}-  Jove,  I  suppose  whatever  is  is  right,  as  Shakspeare 
says." 

Pen  did  not  think  fit  to  tell  his  inicle  who  was  the  author 
who  had  made  use  of  that  remarkable  phrase,  and  here  descend- 
ing from  the  Green  Park,  the  pair  made  their  way  into  Gros- 
venor  Place,  and  to  the  door  of  the  mansion  occupied  there  by 
Sir  Francis  and  Lady  Clavering. 

The  dining-room  shutters  of  this  handsome  mansion  were 
freshly  gilded  ;  the  knockers  shone  gorgeous  upon  the  newly 
painted  door ;  the  balcony  before  the  drawing-room  bloomed 
with  a  portable  garden  of  the  most  beautiful  plants,  and  with 
flowers,  white,  and  pink,  and  scarlet ;  the  windows  of  the  upper 
room  (the  sacred  chamber  and  dressing-room  of  my  lad^-,  doubt- 
less), and  even  a  prett}'  little  casement  of  the  third  story,  which 
keen-sighted  Mr.  Pen  presumed  to  belong  to  the  virgin  bedroom 
of  Miss  Blanche  Amory,  were  similarly  adorned  with  floral 
ornaments,  and  the  whole  exterior  face  of  the  house  presented 
the  most  brilliant  aspect  which  fresh  new  paint,  shining  plate 
glass,  newly  cleaned  bricks,  and  spotless  mortar,  could  oflTer  to 
the  beholder. 

"How  Strong  must  have  rejoiced  in  organizing  all  this 
splendor,"  thought  Pen.  He  recognized  the  Chevalier's  genius 
in  the  magnificence  before  him. 

"  Lady  Clavering  is  going  out  for  her  drive,"  the  Major  said. 
"We  shall  only  have  to  leave  our  pasteboards,  Arthur."  He 
used  the  word  "pasteboards,"  having  heard  it  from  some  of 
the  ingenious  youth  of  the  nobility  about  town,  and  as  a  modern 
phrase  suited  to  Pen's  tender  j-ears.  Indeed,  as  the  two  gentle- 
men reached  the  door,  a  landau  drove  up,  a  magnificent  yellow 
carriage,  lined  with  brocade  or  satin  of  a  faint  cream  color, 
drawn  by  wonderful  grey  horses,  with  flaming  ribbons,  and 
harness  blazing  all  over  with  crests  :  no  less  than  three  of  these 
heraldic  emblems  surmounted  the  coats  of  arms  on  the  panels, 
and  these  shields  contained  a  prodigious  number  of  quarterings, 
betokening  the  antiquity  and  splendor  of  the  houses  of  Clavp.r- 


PENDENXIS.  ^  373 

ing  and  Snell.  A  coachman  in  u  tight  silver  wig  surmounted 
the  magnificent  hammercloth  (whereon  tlie  same  arms  were 
worked  in  bullion),  and  controlled  the  prancing  gre3-s  —  a  young 
man  still,  but  of  a  solemn  countenance,  with  a  laced  waistcoat 
and  buckles  in  his  shoes  —  little  buckles,  unhke  those  which 
John  and  Jeames,  the  footmen,  wear,  and  which  we  know  are 
large,  and  spread  elegant!}'  over  the  foot. 

One  of  the  leaves  of  the  hall  door  was  opened,  and  John  — 
one  of  the  largest  of  his  race  —  was  leaning  against  the  door 
pillar,  with  his  ambrosial  hair  powdered,  his  legs  crossed ; 
beautiful,  silk-stockinged  ;  in  his  hand  his  cane,  gold-headed, 
dolicltoaklon.  Jeames  was  invisible,  but  near  at  hand,  waiting 
in  the  hall,  with  the  gentleman  who  does  not  wear  liverj-,  and 
ready  to  fling  down  the  roll  of  hair-cloth  over  which  her  lady- 
ship was  to  step  to  her  carriage.  These  things  and  men,  the 
which  to  tell  of  demands  time,  are  seen  in  the  glance  of  a  prac- 
tised e^-e  :  and.  in  fact,  the  Major  and  Pen  had  scarcely'  crossed 
the  street,  when  the  second  battant  of  the  door  flew  open  ;  the 
horse-hair  carpet  tumbled  down  the  door-steps  to  those  of  the 
carriage  ;  John  was  opening  it  on  one  side  of  the  emblazoned 
door,  and  Jeames  on  the  other,  and  two  ladies,  attired  in  the 
highest  style  of  fashion,  and  accompanied  by  a  third,  who  car- 
ried a  Blenheim  spaniel,  yelping  in  a  light  blue  ribbon,  came 
forth  to  ascend  the  carriage. 

Miss  Amor^'  was  the  first  to  enter,  which  she  did  with  aerial 
lightness,  and  took  the  place  which  she  liked  best.  Lady  Clav- 
ering  next  followed,  but  her  ladyship  was  more  mature  of  age 
and  heav}'  of  foot,  and  one  of  those  feet,  attired  in  a  green 
satin  boot,  with  some  part  of  a  stocking,  which  was  very  fine, 
whatever  the  ankle  might  be  which  it  encircled,  might  be  seen 
swa3ing  on  the  carriage-step,  as  her  ladyship  leaned  for  support 
on  the  arm  of  the  unbending  Jeames,  b^-  the  enraptured  ob- 
server of  female  beauty  who  happened  to  be  passing  at  the  time 
of  this  imposing  ceremonial. 

The  Pendennises  senior  and  junior  beheld  those  charms  as 
they  came  up  to  the  door  —  the  Major  looking  grave  and 
courtl}',  and  Pen  somewhat  abashed  at  the  carriage  and  its 
owners  ;  for  he  thought  of  sundry  little  passages  at  Clavering, 
which  made  his  heart  beat  rather  quick. 

At  that  moment  Lady  Clavering,  looking  round,  saw  the 
pair  —  she  was  on  the  first  carriage-step,  and  would  have  been 
in  the  vehicle  in  another  second,  but  she  gave  a  start  backwards 
(which  caused  some  of  the  powder  to  fly  from  the  hair  of  am- 
brosial Jeames),  and  crying  out,  ''  Lor,  if  it  isn't  Arthur  Pen- 


374  /  PENDENNIS. 

dennis  and  the  old  Major  !  "  jumped  back  to  terra  firma  directly, 
and  holding  out  two  fat  hands,  encased  in  tight  orange-colored 
gloves,  tlie  good-natured  woman  warmh-  greeted  the  Major  and 
his  nephew. 

"  Come  in  both  of  you.  — Why  haven't  you  been  before?  — 
Get  out,  Blanche,  and  come  and  see  your  old  friends.  — O,  I'm 
so  glad  to  see  you.  We've  been  waitin'  and  waitin'  for  you  ever 
so  long.  Come  in,  luncheon  ain't  gone  down,"  cried  out  this 
hospitable  lady,  squeezing  Pen's  hand  in  both  hers  (she  had 
dropped  the  Major's  after  a  brief  wrench  of  recognition),  and 
Blanche,  casting  up  her  eyes  towards  the  chimneys,  descended 
from  the  carriage  presentl}',  with  a  timid,  blushing,  appealing 
look,  and  gave  a  little  hand  to  Major  Pendennis. 

The  companion  with  the  spaniel  looked  about  irresolute,  and 
doubting  whether  she  should  not  take  Fido  his  airing ;  but  she 
too  turned  right  about  face  and  entered  the  house  after  Lady 
Clavering,  her  daughter,  and  the  two  gentlemen.  And  the 
carriage,  with  the  prancing  greys,  was  left  unoccupied,  save  by 
the  coachman  in  the  silver  wig. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

IK   WHICH    THE    SYLPH    REAPPEARS. 

Better  folks  than  Morgan,  the  valet,  were  not  so  well  in- 
structed as  that  gentleman,  regarding  the  amount  of  Lady  Clav- 
ering's  riches  ;  and  the  legend  in  London,  upon  her  lad3'ship's 
arrival  in  the  polite  metropolis,  was,  that  her  fortune  was  enor- 
mous. Indigo  factories,  opium  clippers,  banks  overflowing  with 
rupees,  diamonds  and  jewels  of  native  princes,  and  vast  sums  of 
interest  paid  by  them  for  loans  contracted  by  themselves  or  their 
predecessors  to  Lad}'  Clavering's  father,  were  mentioned  as 
sources  of  her  wealth.  Her  account  at  her  London  banker's 
was  positively  known,  and  the  sum  embraced  so  man}'  cyphers 
as  to  create  as  man}'  O's  of  admiration  in  the  wondering  hearer. 
It  was  a  known  fact  that  an  envoy  from  an  Indian  Prince,  a 
Colonel  Altamont,  the  Nawaub  of  Lucknow's  prime  favorite,  an 
extraordinary  man,  who  had,  it  was  said,  embraced  Mahomet- 
anism,  and  undergone  a  thousand  wild  and  perilous  adventures, 
was  at  present  in  this  country,  trying  to  negotiate  with  the 


PENDENXIS.  375 

Begum  Clavering,  the  sale  of  the  Nawaub's  celebrated  nose- 
ring diamond,  "  the  light  of  the  Dewau." 

Under  the  title  of  the  Begum,  Lady  Clavering's  fame  began 
to  spread  in  London  before  she  herself  descended  ui^on  the 
Capital,  and  as  it  has  been  the  boast  of  Delolme,  and  Black- 
stone,  and  all  panegyrists  of  the  Britisli  Constitution,  that  we 
admit  into  our  aristocracy  merit  of  every  kind,  and  that  the 
jlowliest-born  man,  if  he  but  deserve  it,  may  wear  the  robes  of 
a  peer,  and  sit  alongside  of  a  Cavendish  or  a  Stanley  :  so  it 
ought  to  be  the  boast  of  our  good  society,  that  haughty  though 
it  be,  naturally  jealous  of  its  privileges,  and  careful  who  shall 
be  admitted  into  its  circle,  yet,  if  an  individual  be  but  rich 
enough,  all  barriers  are  instantly  removed,  and  he  or  she  is 
welcomed,  as  from  his  wealtli  he  merits  to  be.  This  fact 
shows  our  British  independence  and  honest  feeling  —  our  higher 
orders  are  not  such  mere  hauglity  aristocrats  as  the  ignorant 
represent  them  :  on  the  contrary,  if  a  man  have  mone^-  they 
will  hold  out  their  hands  to  him,  eat  his  dinners,  dance  at  his 
balls,  many  his  daughters,  or  give  their  own  lovely  girls  to  his 
sons,  as  affably  as  your  commonest  roturier  would  do. 

As  he  had  superintended  the  arrangements  of  the  country 
mansion,  our  friend,  the  Chevalier  Strong,  gave  the  benefit  of 
his  taste  and  advice  to  the  fashionaljle  London  upholsterers, 
who  prepared  the  town  house  for  the  reception  of  the  Clavering 
famil}'.  In  the  decoration  of  this  elegant  abode,  honest  Strong's 
soul  rejoiced  as  much  as  if  he  had  been  himself  its  proprietor. 
He  hung  and  re-hung  the  pictures,  he  studied  tiie  positions  of 
sofas,  he  had  interviews  with  wine  merchants  and  pun-eyors 
who  were  to  supply  the  new  establishment ;  and  at  the  same 
time  the  Baronet's  factotum  and  conlidential  friend  took  the 
opportunity  of  furnishing  his  own  chambers,  and  stocking  his 
snug  little  cellar :  his  friends  complimented  him  upon  the  neat- 
ness of  the  former ;  and  the  select  guests  who  came  in  to  share 
Strong's  cutlet  now  found  a  bottle  of  excellent  claret  to  accom- 
pany the  meal.  The  Chevalier  was  now,  as  he  said,  "  in 
clover :  "  he  had  a  very  comfortable  set  of  rooms  in  Shepherd's 
Inn.  He  was  waited  on  by  a  former  Spanisli  Legionary  and 
comrade  of  his  whom  he  had  left  at  a  breach  of  a  Spanish  fort, 
and  found  at  a  crossing  in  Tottenham  Court  Road,  and  whom 
he  had  elevated  to  the  rank  of  body-servant  to  himself  and  to 
the  chum  who,  at  present,  shared  his  lodgings.  This  was  no 
other  than  the  favorite  of  the  Nawaub  of  Lucknow,  tlie  valiant 
Colonel  Altamont. 

No  man  was  less  curious,  or,  at  anv  rate,  more  discreet,  than 


376  PENDENNIS. 

Ned  Strong,  and  he  did  not  care  to  inquire  into  the  mysterious 
connection  which,  very  soon  after  their  first  meeting  at  Bay- 
mouth,  was  established  between  Sir  Francis  Clavering  and  the 
envoy  of  the  Nawaub.  The  latter  knew  some  secret  regarding 
the  former,  which  put  Clavering  into  his  power,  somehow ;  and 
Strong,  who  knew  that  his  patron's  early  life  had  been  rather 
irregular,  and  that  his  career  with  his  regiment  in  India  had 
not  been  brilliant,  supposed  that  the  Colonel,  who  swore  he 
knew  Clavering  well  at  Calcutta,  had  some  hold  upon  Sir 
Francis,  to  which  the  latter  was  forced  to  yield.  In  trutli, 
Strong  had  long  understood  Sir  Francis  Claveiing's  character, 
as  that  of  a  man  utterly  weak  in  purpose,  in  principle,  and  in- 
tellect, a  moral  and  physical  trifler  and  poltroon. 

With  poor  Clavering,  his  P^xcellencj'  had  had  one  or  two 
interviews  after  their  Baymouth  meeting,  the  nature  of  which 
conversations  the  Baronet  did  not  confide  to  Strong :  although 
he  sent  letters  to  Altamont  by  that  gentleman,  who  was  his 
ambassador  in  all  sorts  of  aflTairs.  On  one  of  these  occasions 
the  Nawaub's  envoy  must  have  been  in  an  exceeding  ill-humor  ; 
for  he  crushed  Clavering's  letter  in  his  hand,  and  said  with  his 
own  particular  manner  and  empliasis  :  — 

"A  hundred  be  hanged.  I'U  have  no  more  letters  nor  no 
more  shilly-shally.  Tell  Clavering  I'll  have  a  thousand,  or  by 
Jove  I'll  split,  and  burst  him  all  to  atoms.  Let  him  give  me 
a  thousand  and  I'll  go  abroad,  and  I  give  you  ni}'  honor  as  a 
gentleman,  I'll  not  ask  him  for  no  more  for  a  year.  Give  him 
that  message  from  me.  Strong,  my  boy ;  and  tell  him  if  the 
monej'  ain't  here  next  Friday  at  12  o'clock,  as  sure  as  my 
name's  what  it  is,  I'll  have  a  paragraph  in  the  newspaper  on 
Saturday,  and  next  week  I'll  blow  up  the  whole  concern." 

Strong  carried  back  these  words  to  his  principal,  on  whom 
their  effect  was  such  that  actually  on  the  da}'  and  hour  ap- 
pointed, the  Chevalier  made  his  appearance  once  more  at  Alta- 
mont's  hotel  at  Baymouth,  with  the  sum  of  monej-  required. 
Altamont  was  a  gentleman,  he  said,  and  behaved  as  such ;  he 
paid  his  bill  at  the  Inn,  and  the  Baymouth  paper  announced 
his  departure  on  a  foreign  tour.  Strong  saw  liim  embark  at 
Dover.  "  It  must  be  forgery  at  the  very  least,"  he  thought, 
"that  has  put  Clavering  into  this  fellow's  power,  and  the  Colo- 
nel has  got  the  bill." 

Before  the  year  was  out,  however,  this  happy  countr}'  saw 
the  Colonel  once  more  upon  its  shores.  A  confounded  run  on 
the  red  had  finished  him,  he  said,  at  Baden  Baden:  no  gentle- 
man could  stand  against  a  color  coming  up  fourteen  times.    He 


n:\i>Kxxis.  377 

hnd  been  obliged  to  draw  upon  Sir  Fi'aneis  Claveiiiii;  for  luoans 
of  retinning  homo:  and  Clavoring,  tbougli  pressed  for  mone\- 
(for  he  had  election  expenses,  had  set  up  his  establishment  in 
the  country,  and  was  engaged  in  furnishing  his  London  house), 
yet  found  means  to  accept  Colonel  xVltamont's  bill,  though 
evidently  very  much  against  his  will ;  for  in  Strong's  hearing. 
Sir  Francis  wished  to  heaven,  with  many  curses,  that  the  Colo- 
nel could  have  been  locked  up  in  a  debtor's  gaol  in  Germany 
for  life,  so  that  he  might  never  be  troiil)led  again. 

These  sums  for  the  Colonel  Sir  Francis  was  obliged  to  raise 
without  the  knowledge  of  his  wife  ;  for  though  perfectly  liberal, 
nay,  sumptuous  in  her  expenditure,  the  good  lady  had  inher- 
ited a  tolerable  aptitude  for  business  along  with  the  large  for- 
tune of  her  father,  Suell,  and  gave  to  her  husband  onl}'  such  a 
handsome  allowance  as  she  thought  befitted  a  gentleman  of  his 
rank.  Now  and  again  she  would  give  him  a  present,  or  pay 
an  outstanding  gambling  debt ;  but  she  alwa3s  exacted  a  pretty 
accurate  account  of  the  moneys  so  required  ;  and  respecting  the 
subsidies  to  the  Colonel.  Clavering  fairly  told  Strong  that  he 
couldn't  speak  to  his  wife. 

Part  of  Mr.  Strong's  business  in  life  was  to  procure  this 
money  and  other  sums,  for  his  patron.  And  in  the  Chevalier's 
apartments,  in  Shepherd's  Inn,  many  negotiations  took  place 
between  gentlemen  of  the  moneyed  world  and  Sir  Francis  Cla\- 
ering ;  and  many  valuable  bank-notes  and  pieces  of  stamped 
paper  were  passed  between  them.  AVhen  a  man  has  been  in 
the  habit  of  getting  in  debt  from  his  early  youth,  and  of  ex- 
changing his  promises  to  pay  at  twelve  months  against  present 
sums  of  money,  it  would  seem  as  if  no  piece  of  good  fortune 
ever  permanently  benefited  him  :  a  little  while  after  the  advent 
of  prosperity,  the  money-lender  is  pretty  certain  to  be  in  the 
house  again,  and  the  bills  with  the  old  signature  in  the  market. 
Ciavering  found  it  more  convenient  to  see  these  gentry  al 
Strong's  lodgings  than  at  his  own  ;  and  such  was  the  Cheva- 
lier's friendship  for  the  Baronet,  that  although  he  did  not  pos- 
sess a  shilling  of  his  own,  his  name  might  be  seen  as  the  drawer 
of  almost  all  the  ])ills  of  exchange  which  Sir  Francis  Clavering 
accepted.  Having  drawn  Clavering's  bills,  he  got  them  dis- 
counted  "•  in  the  Cit}*."  When  they  became  due  he  parleye\' 
with  the  bill-holders,  and  gave  them  instalments  of  their  del>t, 
or  got  time  in  exchange  for  IVesh  acceptances.  Regularly  or 
irregularly,  gentlemen  must  live  somehow :  and  as  we  read 
how.  the  other  day.  at  Comorn.  the  troops  forming  that  garri- 
son were  gay  and  lively,  acted  plays,  danced  at  balls,  and  c(n) 

lo 


378  PENDENNIS. 

sumed  their  rations  ;  though  meuaced  with  an  assault  from  the 
enemy  without  the  waUs,  and  with  a  gallows  if  the  Austrians 
were  successful,  —  so  there  are  hundreds  of  gallant  spirits  in 
this  town,  walking  about  in  good  spirits,  dining  every  day  in 
tolerable  gaj'et}'  and  plenty,  and  going  to  sleep  comfortably  ■, 
with  a  bailiff*  always  more  or  less  near,  and  a  rope  of  debt  round 
their  necks  —  the  which  ti'ifling  inconveniences  Ned  Strong,  the 
old  soldier,  bore  very  easily. 

But  we  shall  have  another  opportunity  of  making  acquaint- 
ance with  these  and  some  other  interesting  inhabitants  of  Shep- 
herd's Inn,  and  in  the  meanwhile  are  keeping  Lady  Clavering 
and  her  friends  too  long  waiting  on  the  door-steps  of  Grosvenor 
Place. 

First  they  went  into  the  gorgeous  dining-room,  fitted  up, 
Lad}^  Clavei'ing  couldn't  for  goodness  gracious  tell  why,  in  the 
middle-aged  style,  ^' unless,"  said  her  good-natured  ladyship, 
laughing,  "  because  me  and  Clavering  are  middle-aged  people  ;" 

—  and  here  they  were  offered  the  copious  remains  of  the  lun- 
cheon of  which  Lady  Clavering  and  Blanche  had  just  partaken. 
When  nobody  was  near,  our  little  Sylphide,  who  scarcely  ate  at 
dinner  more  than  the  six  grains  of  rice  of  Amina,  the  friend 
of  the  Ghouls  in  the  Arabian  Nights,  was  most  active  with  her 
knife  and  fork,  and  consumed  a  ver}'  substantial  portion  of  mut- 
ton cutlets  :  in  which  piece  of  hypocrisy  it  is  believed  she  resem- 
bled other  3'oung  ladies  of  fashion.  Pen  and  his  uncle  declined 
the  refection,  but  the}-  admired  the  dining-room  with  fitting 
compliments,  and  pronounced  it  "  very  chaste,"  that  being  the 
proper  phrase.  There  were,  indeed,  high-backed  Dutch  chairs 
of  the  seventeenth  century  ;  there  was  a  sculptured  carved  buffet 
of  the  sixteenth  ;  there  was  a  sideboard  robbed  out  of  the  carved 
work  of  a  church  in  the  Low  Countries,  and  a  large  brass  cathe 
dral  lamp  over  the  round  oak  table  ;  there  were  old  family  por- 
traits from  Wardour  Street,  and  tapestry  from  France,  bits  ol 
armor,  double-handed  swords  and  battle-axes  made  of  carton- 
pierye,  looking-glasses,  statuettes  of  saints,  and  Dresden  chin* 

—  nothing,  in  a  word,  could  be  chaster.  Behind  the  dining- 
room  was  the  library,  fitted  with  busts  and  books  all  of  a  size, 
and  wonderful  easy-chairs,  and  solemn  bronzes  in  the  severe 
classic  style.  Here  it  was  that,  guarded  b}^  double  doors,  Sir 
Francis  smoked  cigars,  and  read  ''  Bell's  Life  in  London,"  and 
went  to  sleep  after  dinner,  when  he  was  not  smoking  over  the 
billiard-table  at  his  clubs,  or  punting  at  the  gambling-houses  in 
Saint  James's. 

But  what  could  equal  the  chaste  splendor  of  the  drawing- 


PEXDENNIS.  o79 

rooms?  —  the  carpets  were  so  magnificcnth-  fluffy  that  your 
loot  made  no  more  noise  on  them  than  ^our  shadow :  on  then- 
white  ground  bloomed  roses  and  tulips  as  big  as  warming-pans  : 
about  the  room  were  high  chairs  and  low  chairs,  bandy-legged 
chairs,  chairs  so  attenuated  that  it  was  a  wonder  any  but  a  sylph 
could  sit  upon  them,  marqueterie-tables  covered  with  marvel- 
lous gimcracks,  china  ornaments  of  all  ages  and  countries, 
bronzes,  gilt  daggers,  Books  of  Beauty,  yataghans,  Turkish 
papooshes  and  boxes  of  Parisian  bonbons.  Wherever  3'ou  sat 
down  there  were  Dresden  shepherds  and  shepherdesses  con- 
venient at  3-our  elbow  ;  there  were,  moreover,  light  blue  poodles 
and  ducks  and  cocks  and  hens  in  porcelain  ;  there  were  nymphs 
by  Boucher,  and  shepherdesses  by  Greuze,  very  chaste  indeed  ; 
there  were  muslin  curtains  and  brocade  curtains,  gilt  cages 
with  paroquets  and  love  birds,  two  squealing  cockatoos,  each 
out-squealing  and  out-chattering  the  other ;  a  clock  singing 
tunes  on  a  console-table,  and  another  boonaing  the  hours  like 
Great  Tom,  on  the  mantel-piece  —  there  was,  in  a  word,  every- 
thing that  comfort  could  desire,  and  the  most  elegant  taste  de- 
vise. A  London  drawing-room,  fitted  up  without  regard  to 
expense,  is  surel}*  one  of  the  noblest  and  most  curious  sights 
of  the  present  da}'.  The  Romans  of  the  Lower  Empire,  the 
dear  Marchionesses  and  Countesses  of  Louis  XV. ,  could  scarce- 
ly have  had  a  finer  taste  than  our  modern  folks  exhibit ;  and 
everybody  who  saw  Ladv  Clavering's  reception-rooms  was 
forced  to  confess  that  the}'  were  most  elegant ;  and  that  the 
prettiest  rooms  in  London  —  Lady  Harley  Quin's,  Lady  Han- 
way  Wardour's,  or  Mrs.  Hodge-Podgson's  own,  the  great  Rail- 
road Croesus'  wife,  were  not  fitted  up  with  a  more  consummate 
'•'  chastity." 

Poor  Lady  Clavering,  meanwhile,  knew  little  regarding  these 
things,  and  had  a  sad  want  of  respect  for  the  splendors  arounc^ 
her.  ' '  I  only  know  they  cost  a  precious  deal  of  money 
Major,"  she  said  to  her  guest,  "  and  that  I  don't  advise  you  to 
try  one  of  them  gossamer  gilt  chairs  :  /came  down  on  one  the 
night  we  gave  our  second  dinner-party.  Why  didn't  j'ou  come 
and  see  us  before  ?     We'd  have  asked  you  to  it." 

"  You  would  have  liked  to  see  Mamma  break  a  chair, 
wouldn't  you,  Mr.  Pendennis?"  dear  Blanche  said  with  a  sneer. 
She  was  angry  because  Pen  was  talking  and  laughing  with 
Mamma,  because  Mamma  had  made  a  number  ol"  blunders  in 
describing  the  house — for  a  hundred  other  good  reasons. 

"  T  should  like  to  have  been  ])y  to  give  Lady  Clavering  my 
arm  if  she  hud  need  of  it,"  Pen  answered,  with  a  bow  and  « 
blush. 


380  PENDENNLS. 

"  Quel  prcKx  ClirniJicr!''  cried  the  Sylphule,  tossing  up  her 
little  head. 

''1  h:ive  a  fellow-leeling  with  those  who  tall,  remember," 
Pen  said.     ''  I  suffered  myself  ver}'  much  from  doing  so  once." 

''  And  you  went  home  to  Laura  to  console  3'ou,"  said  Miss 
Amory.  Pea  winced.  He  did  not  like  the  remembrance  of 
the  consolation  which  Laura  had  given  to  him,  nor  was  he  very 
well  pleased  to  find  that  his  rebuff  in  that  quarter  was  known 
to  the  world  :  so  as  he  had  nothing  to  say  in  reply,  he  began  to 
lie  immensely  interested  in  the  furniture  round  about  him,  and 
to  praise  J^ady  Clavering's  taste  with  all  his  might. 

''  Me,  don't  praise  me,"  said  honest  Lad}'  Clavering,  "  it's 
all  the  upholsterer's  doings  and  Captain  Strong's  ;  they  did  it 
all  while  we  was  at  the  Park  —  and  —  and  —  Lady  Roekminster 
has  been  here  and  says  the  salongs  are  very  well,"  said  Lady 
Clavering,  with  an  air  and  tone  of  great  deference. 

*'  My  cousin  Laura  has  been  staying  with  her,"  Pen  said. 

"  It's  not  the  dowager:  it  is  the  Lady  Roekminster." 

"Indeed!"  cried  Major  Pendennis,  when  he  heard  this 
great  name  of  fashion.  "  If  you  have  her  ladyship's  approval, 
Lady  Clavering,  3TJU  cannot  be  far  wrong.  No,  no,  you  cannot 
be  far  wrong.  Lady  Roekminster,  I  should  sa}',  Arthur,  is  the 
ver}'  centre  of  the  circle  of  fashion  and  taste.  The  rooms  are 
beautiful  indeed  !  "  and  the  Major's  voice  hushed  as  he  spoke 
of  this  great  lady,  and  he  looked  round  and  surveyed  the  apart- 
ments awfull\-  and  respectfully,  as  if  he  had  been  at  church. 

"Yes,  Lady  Roekminster  has  took  us  up,"  said  Lady 
Clavering. 

"  Taken  us  up,  Mamma,"  cried  Blanche,  in  a  shrill  voice. 

"Well,  taken  us  up,  then,"  said  my  lady,  '•  it's  very  kind 
of  her,  and  I  dare  say  we  shall  like  it  when  we  git  used  to  it, 
only  at  first  one  don't  fancy  being  took  —  well,  taken  up,  at  all. 
She  is  going  to  give  our  balls  for  us  ;  and  wants  to  invite  all 
our  diners.  But  I  won't  stand  that.  I  will  have  my  old  friends 
and  I  won't  let  her  send  all  the  cards  out,  and  sit  mum  at  the 
head  of  my  own  table.  You  must  come  to  me,  Arthur  and  Major 
—  come,  let  me  see,  on  the  14th. — It  ain't  one  of  our  grand 
dinners,  Blanche,"  she  said,  looking  round  at  her  daughter, 
who  bit  her  lips  and  frowned  very  savagely  for  a  sylphide. 

The  Major,  with  a  smile  and  a  bow,  said  he  would  much 
rather  come  to  a  quiet  meeting  than  to  a  grand  dinner.  He 
had  had  enough  of  those  large  entertainments,  and  pi-eferred 
the  simplicity  of  the  home  ciFcle. 

"I  always  think  a  dinner's  the  best  the  second  day,"  said 


PEXDEXNIS.  ?i^l 

Lady  C'lavering,  thinking  to  nwud  her  first  specfh.  "On  the 
1 4th  we'll  be  quite  a  snug  little  party  :  "  at  which  second  blun- 
der, Miss  Blanche  clasped  her  hands  in  despair,  and  said,  '•  O, 
Mamma,  rous  etes  incorrigible.''  Major  I'endennis  vowed  that 
he  liked  snug  dinners  of  all  things  in  the  world,  and  confounded 
her  ladyship's  impudence  for  daring  to  ask  such  a  man  as  him 
to  a  second  day's  dinner.  But  he  was  a  man  of  an  economical 
turn  of  mind,  and  bethinking  himself  that  he  could  throw  over 
these  people  if  anything  better  should  ol!er,  he  accepted  with 
the  blandest  air.  As  for  Pen.  he  was  not  a  diner-out  of  thirty 
years'  standing  as  j'et,  and  the  idea  of  a  fine  feast  in  a  fine 
house  was  still  perfectly  welcome  to  him. 

''  What  was  that  pretty  little  quarrel  which  engaged  itself 
between  your  worship  and  Miss  Amory?"  the  Major  asked  of 
Pen.  as  tliey  walked  away  together.  "  I  thought  you  used  to 
be  aa  mieux  in  that  quarter." 

'•'Used  to  be,"  answered  Pen,  with  a  dandified  air,  "is  a 
vague  phrase  regarding  a  woman,  ^^^as  and  is  are  two  very 
dillerent  terms,  sir,  as  regards  women's  hearts  esi)ecially." 

"Egad,  the}' change  as  we  do,"  cried  the  elder.  "When 
wo  took  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  I  recollect  there  was  a  lady 
who  talked  of  poisoning  herself  for  your  humble  servant;  and, 
begad,  in  three  months,  she  ran  awa}'  from  her  husband  with 
somebody  else.  Don't  get  yourself  entangled  with  that  Miss 
Amory.  She  is  forward,  afiected,  and  underbred  :  and  her 
character  is  somewhat  —  never  mind  what.  But  don't  think  of 
her ;  ten  thousand  pound  won't  do  for  you.  What,  my  good 
fellow,  is  ten  thousand  pound?  I  would  scared}'  pa}'  that  girl's 
milliner's  bill  with  the  interest  of  the  money." 

"  You  seem  to  be  a  connoisseur  in  millinery,  Uncle,"  I*en 
saul. 

"1  was,  sir,  I  was,"  replied  the  senior;  "  and  the  old  war- 
iiorse,  you  know,  never  hears  the  soinid  of  a  trum[iet.  Init  he 
begins  to  he,  he! — you  understand,"  —  and  he  gave  a  killing 
though  somewhat  superannuated  leer  and  bow  to  a  carriage 
that  inisscd  them  and  enteied  the  Park. 

'  Lady  Catherine  Martingale's  carriage,"  he  said,  "  mons'ous 
fine  girls  the  daughters,  though,  gad,  I  remember  theii-  mother 
a  thousand  times  handsomer.  No,  Arthur,  my  dear  fellow, 
with  your  person  and  expectations,  }ou  ought  to  make  a  good 
coup  in  marriage  some  clay  or  other ;  and  though  I  wouldn't 
have  this  repeated  a1  Fairo-aks.  you  rogue,  ha!  ha!  a  reputa- 
tion for  a  little  wiakeihicss.  and  for  being  an  hiunnic  (hmycreux., 
don't  hurt  a  young  fellow  with  the  women.     The}  like  it,  sir  — 


.382  FENDENNIS. 

they  hate  a  milksop  .  .  .  joung  men  must  be  young  men,  you 
know.  But  for  marriage,"  continued  the  veteran  moralist, 
"  that  is  a  very  different  matter.  Marry  a  woman  with  money. 
I've  told  you  before  it  is  as  eas}'  to  get  a  rich  wife  as  a  poor 
one  ;  and  a  doosed  deal  more  comfortable  to  sit  down  to  a  well- 
cooked  dinner,  with  your  little  entrees  nicely  served,  than  to 
have  nothing  but  a  damned  cold  leg  of  mutton  between  you 
and  your  wife.  We  shall  have  a  good  dinner  on  the  14th, 
,when  we  dine  with  Sir  Francis  Clavering :  stick  to  that,  my 
bo}',  in  3'our  relations  with  the  famil}'.  Cultivate  'em,  but  keep 
■"em  for  dining.  No  more  of  j'our  youthful  follies  and  nonsense 
about  love  in  a  cottage." 

"  It  must  be  a  cottage  with  a  double  coach-house,  a  cottage 
of  gentility,  sir,"  said  Pen,  quoting  the  hackneyed  ballad  of 
the  Devil's  Walk :  but  his  uncle  did  not  know  that  poen) 
(though,  perhaps,  he  might  be  leading  Pen  upon  the  very 
promenade  in  question),  and  went  on  with  his  philosophical 
remarks,  vei'v  much  pleased  with  the  aptness  of  the  pupil  to 
whom  he  addressed  them.  Indeed  Arthur  Pendennis  was  a 
clever  fellow,  who  took  his  color  very  readily  from  his  neighbor 
and  found  the  adaptation  only  too  easy. 

Warrington,  the  grumbler,  growled  out  that  Pen  was  becom- 
ing such  a  puppy  that  soon  there  would  be  no  bearing  him. 
But  the  truth  is,  the  young  man's  success  and  dashing  manners 
pleased  his  elder  companion.  He  Uked  to  see  Pen  gay  and 
spirited,  and  brimful  of  health,  and  life,  and  hope  ;  as  a  man 
who  has  long  since  left  off  being  amused  with  clown  and  harle- 
quin, still  gets  a  pleasure  in  watching  a  child  at  a  pantomime. 
Mr.  Pen's  former  sulkiness  disappeared  with  his  better  fortune : 
and  he  bloomed  as  the  sun  began  to  shine  upon  him. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

IN    WHICH    COLONEL    ALTAMONT    APPEARS    AND    DISAPPEARS. 

On  the  da^'  appointed.  Major  Pendennis.  who  had  formed 
no  better  engagement,  and  Ai'thur,  who  desired  none,  arrived 
together  to  dine  with  Sir  Francis  Clavering.  The  onl}'  tenants 
of  the  drawing-room  when  Pen  and  his  uncle  reached  it,  were 
Sir  Francis  and  his  wife,  and  our  friend  Captain  Strong,  whom 
Arthur  was  very  glad  to  see,  though  the  Major  looked  very 


PENDENNIS.  383 

sulkilj'  at  Strong,  being  by  no  means  well  pleased  to  sit  down  to 

dinner  with  Clavering's  d house-steward,  as  he  irreverently 

called  Strong.  But  Mr.  Welbore  Welbore,  Clavering's  country 
neighbor  and  brother  member  of  Parliament,  speedil}-  arriving, 
Pendennis  the  elder  was  somewhat  appeased,  lor  Welbore, 
though  perfectly  dull,  and  taking  no  more  part  in  the  conver- 
sation at  dinner  than  the  footman  behind  his  chair,  was  a 
respectable  country  gentleman  of  ancient  family  and  seven 
thousand  a  year ;  and  the  Major  felt  always  at  ease  in  such 
society.  To  these  were  added  other  persons  of  note :  the 
Dowager  Lad}"  Rockminster^  who  had  her  reasons  for  being 
well  with  the  Clavering  famil}-,  and  the  Lad}'  Agnes  Foker, 
with  her  son  Mr.  Harry,  our  old  acquaintance.  Mr.  P^-nscnt 
could  not  come,  his  parliamentary  duties  keeping  him  at  the 
House,  duties  which  sat  ui)on  the  two  other  senators  vcr}' 
lightly.  Miss  Blanche  Amory  was  the  last  of  the  company 
who  made  her  appearance.  She  was  dressed  in  a  killing  white 
silk  dress,  which  displayed  her  pearl}'  shoulders  to  the  utmost 
advantage.  Foker  whispered  to  Pen,  who  regarded  her  with 
eyes  of  e\'ident  admiration,  that  he  considered  her  "  a  stunner." 
She  chose  to  be  very  gracious  to  Arthur  upon  this  day,  and 
held  out  her  hand  most  cordially,  and  talked  about  dear  Fair- 
oaks,  and  asked  for  dear  Laura  and  his  mother,  and  said  she 
was  longing  to  go  back  to  the  country,  and  in  fact  was  entirely 
simple,  affectionate,  and  artless. 

Harry  Foker  thought  he  had  never  seen  anjbody  so  amiable 
and  dehghtful.  Not  accustomed  much  to  thr;  society  of  ladies, 
and  ordinarily  being  dumb  in  their  presence,  he  found  that 
he  could  speak  before  Miss  Amory,  and  became  uncommonly 
lively  and  talkative,  even  before  the  dinner  was  announced 
and  the  party  descended  to  the  lower  rooms.  He  would  have 
longed  to  give  his  arm  to  the  fair  Blanche,  and  conduct  her 
down  the  broad  carpeted  stair ;  but  she  fell  to  the;  lot  of  Pen 
upon  this  occasion,  Mr.  Foker  being  appointed  to  escort  Mrs. 
Welbore  Welbore,  in  consequence  of  his  superior  rank  as  an 
earl's  grandson. 

But  though  he  was  separated  from  the  object  of  his  desire 
during  the  passage  down  stairs,  the  delighted  Foker  found  him- 
self by  Miss  Amory's  side  at  the  dinner-table,  and  flattered 
himself  that  he  had  manoeuvred  very  well  in  securing  that 
happy  place.  It  may  be  that  the  move  was  not  his,  but  that  it 
was  made  by  another  person.  Blanche  had  thus  the  two  young 
men,  one  on  each  side  of  her,  xm\  each  tried  to  render  himself 
tiallant  and  aerreeable. 


384  PENDENNIS. 

Foker's  mammsx,  fi'om  her  place,  surveying  her  clarHng  boy. 
was  surprised  at  his  vivacity.  Harry  talked  constantly  to  his 
fair  neighbor  about  the  topics  of  the  day. 

"  Seen  Taglioni  in  the  Sylphide,  Miss  Amor^'?  Bring  vm- 
that  souprame  of  Volile  again,  if  j-ou  please  (this  was  addressed 
to  the  attendant  near  him),  very  good:  can't  think  where  the 
souprames  come  from  ;  what  becomes  of  the  legs  of  the  fowls. 
I  wonder?  She's  clipping  in  the  Sylphide,  ain't  she?"  and 
he  began  very  kindly  to  hum  the  pretty  air  which  pervades  that 
prettiest  of  all  ballets,  now  faded  into  the  past  with  that  most 
beautiful  and  gracious  of  all  dancers.  Will  the  young  folks 
ever  see  anything  so  charming,  anything  so  classic,  anj^thing 
like  Taglioni? 

"  Miss  Amoiy  is  a  S3-Iph  herself,"  said  Mr.  Peai. 

"  What  a  delightful  tenor  voice  you  have,  Mr.  Foker,"  said 
the  young  lady.  "lam  sure  you  haA^e  been  well  taught.  1 
sing  a  little  myself.     I  should  like  to  sing  with  you." 

Pen  remembered  that  words  very  similar  had  been  addressed 
to  himself  by  the  young  lady,  and  that  she  had  liked  to  sing 
with  him  in  former  days.  And  sneering  within  himself,  he 
wondered,  with  how  man}-  other  gentlemen  she  had  sung  duets 
since  his  time  ?  But  he  did  not  think  fit  to  put  this  awkward 
question  aloud  :  and  onh*  said,  with  the  Aery  tenderest  air 
which  he  could  assume,  "  I  should  like  to  hear  you  sing  again, 
Miss  Blanche.  I  never  heard  a  voice  I  liked  so  well  as  yours, 
I  think." 

"  I  thought  you  liked  Laura's,"  said  Miss  Blanche. 

"Laura's  is  a  contralto:  and  that  voice  is  verj'  often  out, 
you  know,"  Pen  said,  bitterly.  "  I  have  heard  a  great  deal  of 
music,  in  London,"  he  continued.  "  Pm  tii'ed  of  those  profes- 
sional people  —  the}'  sing  too  loud  —  or  I  have  grown  too  old 
or  too  blase.  One  grows  old  very  soon,  in  London,  Miss 
Amory.  And  like  all  old  fellows,  I  only  care  for  the  songs  I 
heard  in  m\'  j'outh." 

"  I  like  English  music  best.  I  don't  care  for  foreign  songs 
much.     Get  me  some  saddle  of  mutton,"  said  Mr.  Foker. 

"  I  adore  English  ballads  of  all  things,"  said  jNIiss  Amory. 

"  Sing  me  one  of  the  old  songs  after  dinner,  will  you?"  said 
Pen,  with  an  imploring  voice. 

"Shall  I  sing  3'ou  an  English  song,  after  dinner?"  asked 
the  S3'lphide,  turning  to  Mr.  Foker.  "  I  will,  if  you  will  prom- 
ise to  come  up  soon  ;  "  and  she  gave  liim  a  perfect  broadside  of 
her  e^es. 

"  J^ll  come  up  aftfr  (linuer.  last  enough."  he  said  simply. 


PENDENNIS.  385 

'I  don't  caiv  about  much  wine  afterwards  —  I  take  my  whack 
it  dinner  —  1  mean  my  sliare,  you  know  ;  and  when  I  have 
liad  as  much  as  I  want,  I  toddle  up  to  tea.  I'm  a  domestic 
character,  Miss  xVmory  —  my  habits  arc  simple  —  and  when  I'm 
pleased  I'm  generally  in  a  good  humor,  ain't  I,  Pen?  —  that 
jell}-,  if  you  please — not  that  one,  the  other  with  the  cherries 
inside.  How  the  doose  do  they  get  those  cherries  inside  the 
jellies?"  In  this  wa}'  the  artless  youth  prattled  on  :  and  Miss 
Amory  listened  to  him  with  inexhaustible  good-humor.  When 
the  ladies  took  their  departure  for  the  upper  regions,  Blanche 
made  the  two  young  men  promise  faithfully  to  quit  the  table 
soon,  and  departed  with  kind  glances  to  each.  She  ilropped 
her  gloves  on  Foker's  side  of  the  table,  and  her  handkerchief 
on  Pen's.  Each  had  some  little  attention  paid  to  him  ;  her 
politeness  to  Mr.  Foker  was  perhaps  a  little  more  encouraging 
than  her  kindness  to  Arthur :  but  the  benevolent  little  crea- 
ture did  her  best  to  make  both  the  gentlemen  happy.  Foker 
caught  her  last  glance  as  she  rusheel  out  of  the  door ;  that 
bright  look  passed  over  Mr.  Strong's  broad  white  waistcoat, 
and  shot  straight  at  Harry  Foker's.  The  door  closed  on  the 
charmer :  he  sat  down  with  a  sigh,  and  swallowed  a  bumper 
of  claret. 

As  the  dinner  at  which  Pen  and  his  uncle  took  their  place'i, 
was  not  one  of  our  grand  parties,  it  had  been  served  at  a  con- 
siderabl}-  earlier  hour  than  those  ceremonial  banquets  of  tk> 
London  season,  which  custom  has  ordained  shall  scarcely  take 
place  before  nine  o'clock  ;  and  the  company  being  small,  and 
Miss  Blanche,  anxious  to  betake  herself  to  her  piano  in  the 
drawing-room,  giving  constant  hints  to  her  mother  to  retreat, 
—  Lady  Claverlng  made  that  signal  very  speedily,  so  that  it 
was  quite  daylight  yet  when  the  ladies  reached  the  upper  apart- 
ments, from  tlie  flower-embroidered  balconies  of  which  they 
could  command  a  view  of  the  two  Parks,  of  the  poor  couples 
and  children  still  sauntering  in  the  one,  and  of  the  equii)ages  of 
ladies  and  the  horses  of  dandies  passing  through  the  arch  of 
the  other.  The  sun,  in  a  word,  had  not  set  behind  the  elms 
of  Kensington  Gardens,  and  was  still  gilding  the  statue  erected 
by  the  ladies  of  England  in  iionor  of  his  Grace  the  Duke  of 
Wellington,  when  Lady  Clavering  and  her  female  friends  left 
the  gentlemen  drinking  wine. 

The  windows  of  the  dining-rooin  were  opened  to  let  in  the 
frt'sh  air,  jind  atfoi-dcd  to  the  jjassers-by  in  the  street  a  pleasant 
or,  perhaps,  tantalizing  view  of  six  gentlemen  in  white  wai.si- 

25 


386  PENDENNIS. 

coats,  with  a  quantity  of  decanters  and  a  variety  of  fruits  before 
tiiem  —  little  boys,  as  the}'  passed  and  jumped  up  at  the  area 
railings,  and  took  a  peep,  said  to  one  another,  "Mi  hi,  Jim, 
shouldn't  you  Uke  to  be  there,  and  have  a  cut  of  that  thex'e 
pine-apple?"  —  the  horses  and  carriages  of  the  nobility'  and 
gentry  passed  by,  conveying  them  to  Belgravian  toilets :  the 
policeman,  with  clamping  feet,  patrolled  up  and  down  before 
the  mansion  :  the  shades  of  evening  began  to  fall :  the  gasman 
came  and  lighted  the  lamps  before  Sir  Francis's  door :  the  but- 
ler entered  the  dining-room,  and  illuminated  the  antique  gothic 
chandelier  over  the  antique  carved  oak  diuing-table  :  so  that 
from  outside  the  house  you  looked  inwards  upon  a  night  scene 
of  feasting  and  wax  candles  ;  and  from  within  you  beheld  a  vis- 
ion of  a  calm  summer  evening,  and  the  wall  of  Saint  James's 
Park,  and  the  sky  above,  in  which  a  star  or  two  was  just  begin- 
ning to  twinkle. 

Jeames,  with  folded  legs,  leaning  against  the  door-pillar  of 
his  master's  abode,  looked  forth  musingly  upon  the  latter  tran- 
quil sight ;  whilst  a  spectator,  ehnging  to  the  raiUngs,  examined 
the  former  scene.  Policeman  X,  passing,  gave  his  attention 
to  neither,  but  fixed  it  upon  the  individual  holding  by  the  rail- 
ings, and  gazing  into  Sir  Francis  Clavering's  dining-room,  where 
Strong  was  laughing  and  talking  away,  making  the  conversation 
for  the  party. 

The  man  at  the  railings  was  very  gorgeously  attired  with 
chains,  jewellery,  and  waistcoats,  which  the  illumination  from 
the  house  lighted  up  to  great  advantage  ;  his  boots  were  shiny  ; 
he  had  brass  buttons  to  his  coat,  and  large  white  wristbands 
over  his  knuckles  ;  and  indeed  looked  so  grand,  that  X  imag- 
ined he  beheld  a  member  of  Parliament,  or  a  person  of  consid- 
eration before  him.  Whatever  his  rank,  however,  the  M.P,,  or 
person  of  consideration,  was  considerably  excited  by  wine  ;  for 
he  lurched  and  reeled  somewhat  in  his  gait,  and  his  hat  was 
cocked  over  his  wild  and  bloodshot  eyes  in  a  manner  which  no 
sober  hat  ever  could  assume.  His  copious  black  hair  was  evi- 
dently surreptitious,  and  his  whiskers  of  the  Tyrian  purple. 

As  Strong's  laughter,  following  after  one  of  his  own  gro$ 
mots,  came  ringing  out  of  window,  this  gentleman  without 
laughed  and  sniggered  in  the  queerest  way  likewise,  and  he 
slapped  his  thigh  and  winked  at  Jeames  pensive  in  the  portico, 
as  much  as  to  say,  "  Plush,  my  boy,  isn't  that  a  good  story?" 

Jeames's  attention  had  been  gradually  drawn  from  the 
moon  in  the  heavens  to  this  sublunary  scene  ;  and  he  was  puz- 
zled  and  alarmed  by  the  appearance  of  the  man  in  shinj'  boots. 


PENDENOTS.  38"/ 

"  A  holtercation,"  he  rciuavKed,  afterwards,  in  the  servants' 
hall  —  a  ''holtercation  with  a  feller  in  the  streets  is  never  no 
good  ;  and  indeed,  he  was  not  hired  for  any  such  purpose." 
So,  naving  surveyed  the  man  for  some  time,  who  went  on 
laughnig,  reeling,  nodding  his  licad  with  tipsy  knowingness, 
Jeames  looked  out  of  the  portico,  and  softly  called  "  Pleace- 
man,"  and  beckoned  to  that  oHicer. 

X  marched  up  resolute,  with  one  Berlin  glove  stuck  in  his, 
belt-side,  and  Jeames  simply  i)ointed  with  his  index  finger  to 
the  individual  who  was  laughing  against  the  railings.  Not  one 
single  word  more  than  ••  rieaceman,"  did  he  say,  but  stood 
there  in  the  calm  summer  evening,  pointing  calmly' :  a  grand 
sight. 

X  advanced  to  the  individual  and  said,  "Now,  sir,  will  you 
have  the  kindness  to  move  hon?" 

The  individual,  who  was  in  perfect  good-humor,  did  not 
appear  to  hear  one  word  which  Policeman  X  uttered,  but  nod- 
ded, and  waggled  his  grinning  head  at  Strong,  until  his  hat 
almost  fell  from  his  head  over  the  area  railings. 

"Now,  sir,  move  on,  do  you  hear?"  cries  X,  in  a  much 
more  peremptory  tone,  and  he  touched  the  stranger  gently 
with  one  of  the  fingers  inclosed  in  the  gauntlets  of  the  Berlin 
woof. 

He  of  the  man}'  rings  instantl}'  started,  or  rather  staggered 
back,  into  what  is  called  an  attitude  of  self-defence,  and  in  that 
position  began  the  operation  which  is  entitled  "  squaring,"  at 
Policeman  X,  and  showed  himself  brave  and  warlike,  if  un- 
stead}-.  "  Hullo  !  keep  your  hands  off  a  gentleman,"  he  said, 
with  an  oath  which  need  not  be  repeated. 

"  Move  on  out  of  this,"  said  X,  "  and  don't  be  a  blocking 
up  the  pavement,  staring  into  gentlemen's  dining-rooms." 

"Not  stare  —  ho,  ho,  —  not  stare  —  that  is  a  good  one," 
replied  the  other,  with  a  satiric  laugh  and  sneer,  — ' '  Who's  to 
pi-event  me  from  staring,  looking  at  my  friends,  if  I  like?  not 
3^ou,  old  highlows."  ' 

"  Friends  !  1  dessay.     Move  on,"  answered  X. 

"  If  you  touch  me,  I'll  pitch  into  you,  I  will,"  roared  the 
other.  "  I  tell  you  I  know  'em  all  —  That's  Sir  Francis  Clav- 
ering.  Baronet,  M.P. — I  know  him,  and  he  knows  me  —  and 
that's  Strong,  and  that's  the  young  chap  that  made  the  row  at 
the  ball.     I  say.  Strong,  Strojig  I " 

"  It's  that  d Altamont,"  cried  Sir  Fi'ancis  within,  with 

a  start  and  a  guilty  look  ;  and  Strong  also,  with  a  look  of  an- 
noyance, got  up  from  the  tal)le  and  ran  out  to  the  intruder. 


388  PEXDEXNIS 

A  gentleman  in  a  white  waistcoat,  nmning  out  from  a  din 
ing-room  bare-headed,  a  poHcenian,  and  an  individual  decently 
attired,  engaged  in  almost  fisticuffs  on  the  pavement,  were 
enough  to  make  a  crowd,  even  in  that  quiet  neighborhood,  at 
half  past  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening,  and  a  small  mob  began 
to  assemble  before  8ir  Francis  Clavering's  door.  "  For  God's 
sake,  come  in,"  Strong  said,  seizing  his  acquaintance's  arm. 
''  Send  for  a  cab,  James,  if  you  please,"  he  added  in  an  under 
voice  to  that  domestic;  and  carrying  the  excited  gentleman 
out  of  the  street,  the  outer  door  was  closed  upon  him,  and  the 
small  crowd  began  to  move  away. 

Mr.  Strong  had  intended  to  convey  the  stranger  into  Sir 
Francis's  private  sitting-room,  where  the  hats  of  the  male  guests 
were  awaiting  them,  and  having  there  soothed  his  friend  by 
bland  conversation,  to  ha\e  carried  him  off  as  soon  as  the  cab 
arrived  —  but  the  new-comer  was  in  a  great  state  of  wrath  at 
the  indignity  which  had  been  put  upon  him  ;  and  when  Strong 
would  have  led  him  into  the  second  door,  said  in  a  tipsy  voiced 
"  That  ain't  the  door  —  that's  the  dining-room  door  —  where 
the  drink's  going  on  —  and  I'll  go  and  have  some,  by  Jove  ; 
I'll  go  and  have  some."  At  this  audacity  the  butler  stood 
aghast  in  the  hall,  and  placed  himself  before  the  door :  but  it 
opened  behind  him,  and  the  master  of  the  house  made  his  ap- 
pearance, with  anxious  looks. 

"I  win  have    some,— by  I   will,"   the  intruder  was 

roaring  out,  as  Sir  P'rancis  came  forward.  ''Hullo!  Claver- 
ing,  I  say  I'm  come  to  have  some  wine  with  you  ;  hay  I  old 
boy  —  hay,  old  corkscrew?  Get  us  a  bottle  of  the  yellow  seal, 
you  old  thief — the  very  best  —  a  hundred  rupees  a"  dozen,  and 
no  mistake." 

The  host  reflected  a  moment  over  his  company.  There  is 
only  Welbore,  Pendennis,  and  those  two  lads,  he  thought  ~ 
and  with  a  forced  laugh  and  piteous  look,  he  said,  —  "^Vell, 
Altamont,  come  in.  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  I'm  sure." 
)  Colonel  Altamont,  for  the  intelligent  reader  has  doubtless 
long  ere  this  discovered  in  the  stranger  His  Excellency  the 
Ambassador  of  the  Nawaub  of  Lucknow,  reeled  into  the  dining- 
room,  with  a  triumphant  look  towards  .Jeames,  the  footman, 
which  seemed  to  say,  "  There,  sir,  what  do  you  think  of  that? 
Now,  am  I  a  gentleman  or  no?"  and  sank  down  into  the  first 
vacant  chair.  Sir  Francis  Claveiing  timidly  stammered  out 
the  Colonel's  name  to  his  guest  i^Ir.  NVelboiv'Wclboi-e.  and  his 
Hxeellency  began  drinking  wine  fortliwith  and  gazing  round 
upon  the  company-,  now  with  the  most  wonderful  frowns,  and 


rENPKXNIs.  389 

nnon  with  the  blandest  siuik's,  ami  liiecupix-il  remarks  encomi- 
astic of  the  drink  which  he  was  imbibing. 

"■'  Very  singular  man.  Has  resided  long  in  a  native  court 
in  India,"  Strong  said,  with  great  gi-avity,  the  Chevalier's 
presence  of  mind  never  deserting  him  —  "in  those  Indian 
courts  the\-  get  verv  singular  habits." 

'•Very,"  said  Major  Pendeiuiis,  dryly,  and  wondering  what 
in  goodness'  name  was  the  company-  into  which  he  hr.d  got. 

Mr.  Foker  was  pleased  with  the  new-comer.  '-It's  the 
man  who  would  sing  the  Malay  song  at  the  Back  Kitchen." 
he  whispered  to  Pen.  "'Try  this  pine,  sir,"  he  then  said  to 
Colonel  Altamont,  "  it's  uneonniionly  tine." 

••Pines  —  I've  seen  'em  feed  pigs  on  pines,"  said  the  Colo- 
nel. 

''AH  the  Nawaub  of  Lucknow's  pigs  are  fed  on  pines," 
Strong  whispered  to  Major  Pendennis. 

"Oh,  of  course,"  the  Major  answered.  Sir  Francis  Clav- 
ering  was,  in  the  meanwhile,  endeavoring  to  make  an  excuse 
to  his  brother  guest,  for  the  new-comer's  condition,  and  mut- 
tered something  regaixling  Altamont,  that  he  was  an  extraoi'- 
dinar}-  character,  very  eccentric,  very  —  had  Indian  habits  — 
didn't  understand  the  rules  of  English  societ\" ;  to  which  old 
Welbore,  a  shrewd  old  gentleman,  who  drank  his  wine  with 
great  regularity,  said.  "  that  seemed  prett}'  clear." 

Then,  the  Colonel  seeing  Pen's  honest  face,  regarded  it  for 
a  while  with  as  much  steadiness  as  became  his  condition  ;  and 
said,  ••!  know  you,  too,  young  fellow.  I  remember  ^'ou. 
Bayraouth  ball,  by  jingo.  Wanted  to  fight  the  Frenchman, 
/remember  3"ou  :  "  and  he  laughed,  and  he  squared  with  his 
fists,  and  seemed  hugely  amused  in  the  drunken  depths  of  his 
mind,  as  these  recollections  passed,  or,  rather,  reeled  across  it. 

'•Mr.  Pendennis.  you  remember  Colonel  Altamont,  at  Bay- 
mouth?"  Strong  said :  upon  which  Pen,  bowing  rather  stifHy, 
said,  "he  had  the  pleasure  of  remembering  that  circumstance 
perfectly." 

"  What's  his  name?"  cried  the  Colonel.  Strong  named  Mr. 
Pendennis  again. 

"Pendennis! — Pendennis  be  hanged!"  Altamont  roared 
out  to  the  surprise  of  every  one,  and  thumping  with  his  fist 
on  the  table. 

"My  name  is  also  Pendennis,  sir,"  said  the  Major,  whose 
dignity  was  exceedingly  mortified  by  the  evening's  events  — 
that  he,  Major  Pendennis,  should  have  been  asked  to  such  a 
party,  and  that  a  drunken  man  should  have  been  intruJuct-d  tc 


390  PENDENXTS. 

it.  •'  M}'  name  is  Pcndonnis,  and  T  will  ho  obliged  to  you  not 
to  curse  it  too  loudl3\" 

The  tipsy  man  turned  round  to  look  at  him,  and  as  he 
looked,  it  appeared  as  if  Colonel  Altamont  suddenh'  grew 
sober.  He  put  his  hand  across  his  forehead,  and  in  doing  so, 
displaced  somewhat  the  black  wig  wdiich  he  wore  ;  and  his  eyea 
stared  fiercely  at  the  Major,  who,  in  his  turn,  like  a  resolute  old 
warrior  as  he  was,  looked  at  his  opponent  verj'  keenl}'  and 
steadily.  At  the  end  of  the  nmtual  inspection,  Altamont 
began  to  button  up  his  brass-buttoned  coat,  and  rising  up  from 
his  chair  suddenly,  and  to  the  company's  astonishment,  reeled 
towards  the  door,  and  issued  from  it,  followed  by  Strong :  all 
that  the  latter  heard  him  utter  was  — ' '  Captain  Beak !  Cap- 
tain Beak,  by  jingo  ! " 

There  had  not  passed  above  a  quarter  of  an  hour  from  his 
strange  appearance  to  his  equall}'  sudden  departure.  The  two 
young  men  and  the  Baronet's  other  guest  wondered  at  the 
scene,  and  could  find  no  explanation  for  it.  Clavering  seemed 
exceedingl}^  pale  and  agitated,  and  turned  with  looks  of  almost 
terror  towards  Major  Pendennis  The  latter  had  been  eying 
his  host  keeuh'  for  a  minute  or  two.  "Do  you  know  him?" 
asked  Sir  Francis  of  the  Major. 

"I  am  sure  I  have  seen  the  fellow,"  the  Major  replied, 
looking  as  if  he,  too,  was  puzzled.  "  Yes,  I  have  it.  He  was 
a  deserter  from  the  Horse  Artillery,  who  got  into  the  Nawaub's 
service.     I  remember  his  face  quite  well." 

"Oh!"  said  Clavering,  wnth  a  sigh  which  indicated  im- 
mense relief  of  mind,  and  the  Major  looked  at  him  with  a 
twinkle  of  his  sharp  old  e3'es.  The  cab  which  Strong  had  de- 
sired to  be  called,  drove  awa}*  with  the  Chevalier  and  Colonel 
Altamont ;  coffee  was  brought  to  the  remaining  gentlemen,  and 
they  went  up  stairs  to  the  ladies  in  the  drawing-room,  Foker 
declaring  confidentially  to  Pen  that  "this  was  the  rummest 
go  he  ever  saw,"  which  decision  Pen  said,  laughing,  "showed 
great  discrimination  on  Mr.  Foker's  part." 

Then,  according  to  her  promise.  Miss  Amory  made  music 
for  the  young  men.  Foker  was  enraptured  with  her  perform- 
ance, and  kindly  joined  in  the  airs  which  she  sang,  when  he 
happened  to  be  acquainted  with  them.  Pen  affected  to  talk 
aside  with  others  of  the  party,  but  Blanche  brought  him 
quickly  to  the  piano,  b}'  singing  some  of  his  own  words,  those 
which  we  have  given  in  a  previous  number,  indeed,  and  which 
the  Sylphide  had  herself,  she  said,  set  to  music.  I  don't  know 
whether  the  air  was  hers,  or  how  much  of  it  was  arranged  for 


PENDENNIS.  391 

her  by  Signor  Twankidillo,  from  whom  she  took  lessons :  but 
good  or  bad,  original  or  otherwise,  it  deHght(Kl  Mr.  Pen,  who 
remained  by  her  side,  and  turned  the  leaves  now  for  her  most 
assiduously  — ''  Gad  I  how  I  wish  I  could  write  verses  like  you. 
Pen,"  Foker  sighed  afterwards  to  his  companion.  "If  I  could 
do 'em,  wouldn't  I,  that's  all?  But  I  never  was  a  dab  at  writ- 
ing you  see,  and  I'm  son-y  I  was  so  idle  when  I  was  at  school." 

No  mention  was  made  before  the  ladies  of  the  curious  little 
scene  which  had  been  transacted  below  stairs  ;  although  Pen 
was  just  on  the  point  of  describing  it  to  Miss  Araory,  when 
that  young  lady  inquired  for  Captain  Strong,  who  she  wished 
should  join  her  in  a  duet.  But  chancing  to  look  up  towards 
Sir  Francis  Clavering,  Arthur  saw  a  peculiar  expression  of 
alarm  in  the  baronet's  ordinaril}'  vacuous  face,  and  discreetly 
held  his  tongue.  It  was  rather  a  dull  evening.  Welbore  went 
to  sleep,  as  he  alwa3's  did  at  music  and  aftc  dinner :  nor  did 
Major  Pendennis  entertain  the  ladies  with  copious  anecdotes 
and  endless  little  scandalous  stories,  as  his  wont  was,  but  sat 
silent  for  the  most  part,  and  appeared  to  be  listening  to  the 
music,  and  watching  the  fair  young  performer. 

The  hour  of  departure  having  arrived,  the  Major  rose,  re- 
gretting that  so  delightful  an  evening  should  have  passed  awa}' 
so  quickl}^  and  addressed  a  particularl}'  fine  compliment  to 
Miss  Amor}',  upon  her  splendid  talents  as  a  singer.  ''Your 
daughter.  Lad}'  Clavering,"  he  said  to  that  lady,  "is  a  perfect 
nightingale  —  a  perfect  nightingale,  begad  !  I  have  scarcely 
ever  heard  anything  equal  to  her,  and  her  pronunciation  of 
every  language  —  begad,  of  every  language  —  seems  to  me  to 
be  perfect ;  and  the  best  houses  in  London  must  open  before  a 
j'oung  lady  who  has  such  talents,  and,  allow  an  old  fellow  to 
say,  Miss  Amory,  such  a  face." 

Blanche  was  as  much  astonished  by  these  compliments  as 
Pen  was,  to  whom  his  uncle,  a  little  time  since,  had  beer, 
speaking  in  very  disparaging  terms  of  the  Sylph.  The  Majc/ 
and  the  two  young  men  walked  home  together,  after  Mr.  Foker 
had  placed  his  mother  in  her  carriage,  and  procured  a  light  for 
an  enormous  cigar. 

The  young  gentleman's  company  or  his  tobacco  did  not 
appear  to  be  agreeable  to  Major  Pendennis,  who  eyed  him 
askance  several  times,  and  with  a  look  which  plainly  indicated 
that  he  wished  Mr.  Foker  would  take  his  leave  ;  but  Foker 
hung  on  resolutely  to  the  uncle  and  nephew,  even  until  they 
came  to  the  fonner's  d(jor  in  Bury  Street,  where  tbe  Major 
wished  the  lads  good  night. 


392  PEXDKXNls. 

"  Anrl  I  say,  Fon,"  he  said  in  ;i  (udilidcnlial  wliisper,  call- 
ing his  nepliow  baciv,  -•  mind  you  make  a  point  of  calling  in 
Grosvenor  Place  to-morrow.  They've  been  uncommonly  civil ; 
mons'ously  civil  and  kind." 

Pen  promised  and  wondered,  and  the  Major's  door  having 
been  closed  upon  him  by  Morgan,  Foker  took  Pen's  arm,  and 
walked  with  him  lor  some  time  silently  pulling  his  cigar.  At 
last,  when  they  had  reached  Charing  Cross  on  Arthur's  way 
home  to  the  Temple,  Hari-y  Foker  relieved  himself,  and  broke 
out  with  that  eulogium  upon  poetry,  and  those  regrets  regard- 
ing a  misspent  youth  which  have  just  been  mentioned.  And 
alfthe  way  along  the  Strand,  and  up  to  the  door  of  Pen's  very 
staircase,  in  Lamb  Court,  Temple,  young  Harry  Foker  did  not 
;eaae  to  speak  about  singing  and  P.Wnehe  Amor}-. 


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